The Hard Life Of A Sock

The Hard Life Of A Sock

Thou shalt bow under my trampling feet,

And stretch open thine mouths, face down in dirt.

Woven skin, but inside there is no meat

Turn thee inside out, yet remain unhurt

No armor, fly thine sharp colors instead

After I’ve ripped thine beloveds away

Thou art truly matchless, striped in bright red

Enhampered, crumples thee after each day

Thou art marching ‘til holes open your heels

Thou mocks me, why deploy themselves in pairs?

Without strong boots, thou shalt see no next meal

When thou hungers, thou hoards’t flesh in thine lair.

Thou art a fine weapon, when filled with rocks

It is a hard life, if thou art a sock.