An Ode to My Socks

I wear thee two socks, on mine two feet. There is only one of thee per foot. With thee, o socks, I owe my life, for it is thee who protect mine feet from scrapes, from blisters, and from pain that mine shoe doeth viciously inflict. However, there is nothing that protects thee from those unmentionable acts just mentioned. Thee hath thinned and wore, over the years, as I continued to wore thee. Thee hath continued to disintegrate so that thee are no longer whole, holes that doth make thee so.

I am wearing thee, but both of thee hath a hole. Upon mine left foot, my big toe and the two to follow are hideously exposed, and upon my right, it is mine wrinkly, bulbous heel. Though the holes are against mine wishes -- for it is only natural to wish for feet which are completely covered -- I certainly cannot blame thee. Thee gave a fight, the trite fight of simple walking -- rubbing against the heel of mine shoe by will of mine foot, combating against mine sharp, ill-groomed toenails, which sits the toes that doth stretches thee. It is the feet thee tries to protect, but it had doth put thou to rest.

O socks, you have been ever so faithful to me. It is as if God has pooped on thee, for thou doest not hath cell-replacement like mine feet possess. Oh socks, with a hole so unholy, how do I ever repay thee? Perhaps I should mount thee on mine wall, or perhaps I should wear thee some more days to prove thee are still faring fair. But what is the use, for I cannot wear thee with a hole, for it would put blisters on my feet -- which is thy purpose after all.

Perhaps the fault is mine, and it is not fate. Even though it is written in the foul book of destiny for all socks to eventually grow holes, perhaps I should have chosen a different shoe so thee could live longer -- perhaps a name-brand shoe, that would not have treated thee so poorly.

Unfortunately, what is done is done. I should come to terms with thee's expiring term, for thee should eventually leave me one day. Shall a proper burial be put underway for thee in mine garbage can? Or perhaps thee would prefer a burial at sea, flushed down mine toilet. Wouldst thee would like to see thy replacement pair, which is a thirty percentage discounted at J.C. Penny’s, before thee departs the world.

Fare the well, o socks! Thou were cut down in thy prime, but I shall remember thy courageous hearts, through endless miles of journey, and endless gallons of Clorox Bleach. Goodbye my sweet princes! May you rest in piece!