Ode To The Crusty Sock Under My Bed

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

#Ode #Crusty #Sock #Bed

What do you think?

Leave a Reply