Ode to a Wool Sock
I bow to thee.
Is there anything you cannot do?
So you can't drive a car.
But neither can a great many people
what with cell phones
geese in the road
that sort of thing, you know.
And you cannot eat
because you lack a mouth.
But if you could
It would be pizza and beer,
for you are a simple sock,
not given to pretension
or verbosity or snideness.
And you cannot talk, of course.
If you could, O Sock, I would scream.
But you warm my feet.
And you make the kitchen slippery
And you make it less painful when
I tread upon a pebble or
a bran flake.
And that, O Sock, makes you
Worth your weight in gold.
Which, all told, would come out to about two ounces
which probably isn't all that much gold.
But it is the thought that counts.
I'm thinking of making a poetry book. I would sell them for $10 each, and get rich, and go to Scotland. *nodnod* It's foolproof.