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