Socks

Socks, socks
Smell like pots
Never seem that clean
Can look quite stripy
Or spotty
Or pipey
Or a mixture, in between.

Worn every day
From December to May
And then you go bare-foot
So they must get lonely
And wish for a pony
From Santa, Or an extra dot.

They have a tight shift
With no annual leave
Or holiday, to Spain or France
Though they might be honoured
A small kinda trip
To Bromley's Primark.

So next time you put these
Strange things on
Think of their varied feelings
And kiss
Or cuddle
Or even snuggle,
Them till they sleep and dream.