Poetry: Dirty Socks

Dirty Socks

by Emily Horne  1/24/13

In my little world, I am in charge of clean socks.

You'll wash them yourself? To that I say bollox!

Huffing and puffing and blowing my house in.

Not a clean sock in sight, let's get out the violin.

Ok, I'll wash some, although the sock is arbitrary

I mean, I've washed 'em it before, it's not revolutionary

But, I've gone nuts, gone mad and about to shave a mohawk

But it's got so little to do with your dirty fucking sock.

I'm real, and I'm smart and I'm undeniably clever

I embrace each adventure and encourage endeavor.

I have more to give than I can even withhold

If I let it all out, it would grow tenfold.

But I don’t, 'cause I can't, 'cause there is dirt in my grout

and the kids need a bath and we are out of sauerkraut.

This damn laundry (along with your socks),

is 3 feet high and is unwilling to stop

Dishes, and dinner and the run-of-the-mill

Excuse me, sorry, do you have a sleeping pill?

This is the part of the poem where I make it okay

to eat the shit sandwich and spirit away

But I can't, so I wont, so at the end of this ditty

Your socks are still dirty, and I have no fucking pity.