“Socks” by John Stewart

4 Comments
I try not to take off my shoes around friends,
Or acquaintances, family, in fact it extends,
To others like doctors or dentists or vets,
The neighbourhood children or even their pets.

I fear if I did, the escaping perfume,
Might just overcome anyone in the room.
So, I keep them wrapped up through the day good and tight,
And would desperately love to unleash them at night,
But I share a bunk bed, so I keep them away,
In hopes that my brother survives until day.

The trouble all started when I was just four,
I’d left my old socks laying out on the floor,
When in strolled our old ginger tabby named Fred,
Who sniffed at the socks and then fell over dead.


My mum came in next to find Fred on the floor,
She caught a small whiff and went straight out the door.
“There’s something in there that’s so toxic,” she said,
“That I almost passed out, and I think it’s killed Fred!”


Dad grabbed a mask that he uses for painting,
In hopes that he might get in there without fainting,
He carefully opened the door to my room,
Then picked up the socks on the end of a broom,
And dashed to the laundry as quick as a flash,
Dropping both of my socks in the sink with a splash,


And thankfully that was the end of all that,
Except for the loss of our old ginger cat,
But still that catastrophe could have been worse,
If mother or brother had wandered in first.


So now there’s a rule in my family home,
If I’m taking my shoes off, I must be alone,
And I must put my socks in the washing machine,
So that nobody smells them until they are clean.

4 thoughts on ““Socks” by John Stewart

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