My lovely socks, wherever can you be?
No sign of you anywhere, it’s futile
The warmth you have given protected me
The thought of you gone makes me choke up bile
My feet are bare, they feel overly free
To find you once more, it will take awhile
I recall how you wrap my feet, you beauty
Mom utters, “Check again the bathroom tile!”
“Wait!” Is proclaimed, “I know where they are!”
“They are in the washing machine!” she says
Oh no, but I got them at a bazaar
“Only hand-wash these” the tag clearly states
I hate my mother, this has set the bar
I’ve never felt worse, with my ruined socks