Disclaimer –

Derek's work has been registered at the U.S. Library of Congress, so it would be a terrible financial idea to plagiarize or use any of the material found on this website for your own purposes. Nevertheless, enjoy the writing!

My Socks Are Trying To Kill Me


I slip on my new argyle socks with unrequited care.
I compliment them on my feet, “Oh, what a smashing pair!”
I have no problem with my gloves, my scarf looks really hot;
My socks, though, are the garments that would like me deep in dirt.

They silently creep up my legs unless I keep them low.
Who knows how far they’d get if my reaction time were slow?
And just when I begin to think they’ve ceased their evil plot,
I find a sly, malicious sock still clinging to my shirt.

My socks have tried to kill me and I’m sure they’ll strike again.
I’m not sure how they’ll do it; I know not where or when.
My mother thinks I’m crazy and my girlfriend thinks I’m dense;
My shrink won’t see me claiming I’m a psychopathic liar.

I know that, when I sleep, my socks are planning my demise.
They look so peaceful in the drawer; it’s such a shrewd disguise.
And yet I know, beneath their warm, complacent countenance,
It’s not an accident when one is missing from the dryer.

So how should I obliterate these dreaded, awful foes?
Perhaps I’ll buy acidic shoes or grow talons on my toes.
Oh no, my socks are gazing at my quite suspiciously!
I have to go before my socks can find the cutlery.