Ode, to the black sock, now turned white,

A memoir of frisky humping every night,

Texture rough, but hard and stiff,

A morning routine of one long sniff.

​

Oh, poor sock, what troubles you so?,

Is it the small sticky speckles that fall like snow?

Until that time, when I need more,

You shall sit there, white sock, standing upright on the floor.

​

Written by a 97 year old woman