September 02, 2004
Curious George: Where Are My Socks? I used to have, it seems only a short while ago, many pairs of socks. I look in my sock drawer now and find one old navy sock and a white gym sock that doesn't even belong to me. And my lucky pair of green socks are missing. Where are they? Only Monkeyfilter can help.
Is there some kind of alternate universe into which socks are propelled? Does someone steal them? When does this happen? How do I stop it?
Obviously I am too dumb & lacking motivation to look for them myself, or resist the urge to post such an assinine question to a site that is supposed to be devoted to 'the best of the web' and not something totally devoted to me; but I am a moron. I hope you grok the between-the-lines thing I am getting-at, fellow monkeys.
Lucky. Green. Socks.
Long ago I developed the habit of tying pairs of socks together. I still lose them, but parity is maintained.
check the lonely socks registry.
Have you checked your feet? What's on your feet? You know, at the end of your legs.
How many times do you see one sock on the street? "Look he's only made it this far."
/Seinfeld
Can't help you there, as I don't lose 'em, but what perplexes me is... why there's always one sock that looks older/lighter/looser than its partner? Is one of my feet more sock-intensive?
And there's a shampoo bottle just like this at my bathroom window. I honestly don't know how it ended up there. Or maybe I'm just blocking the memory. Must be that I guess...
"What's on your feet? You know, at the end of your legs."
I have no legs but I must walk!
Are they toe socks? 'Cause if they're toe socks, I stole 'em to terrorize the wife.
"Are they toe socks?"
Are they those socks with toes? Cos I think I have a pair. But I can't find 'em.
"I stole 'em to terrorize the wife."
Terrorize my wife?
Yes, and YES! Now give me back my pants. Your cat is eyeing me suspiciously.
The same damn thing happened to me.
I just discovered the missing half of a pair I bought 3 years ago, lost about 2 months after. In the intervening period I moved 3 times without finding it, and it just turned up unexpectedly last time I washed.
There is hope.
I used to understand when I was going to the communal laundry that they might go AWOL during transport or get accidentally left behind in the machine of the moment, but now I have my own washer & dryer and still come up with 3 odd socks every time I do a couple weeks worth of washing.
I gave up pondering where they go to, but now when I buy socks, I get multiple pairs in the same style & color. They still mysteriously vanish, but I match up the singles and wear them like they've always been a set
behind the washer too. check there.
In this age of flying cars and robotic maids, why have we still not found a better way to cover our hideous appendages than to conceal them in piecewise-complete rags?
Obviously I am too dumb & lacking motivation to look for them myself, or resist the urge to post such an assinine question to a site that is supposed to be devoted to 'the best of the web' and not something totally devoted to me; but I am a moron.
its funny because its true...
Why has MoFi turned into a site where we help people find their fucking socks?
I match up the singles and wear them like they've always been a set
sorry, that is illegal. stop it immediately.
In this age of flying cars and robotic maids, why have we still not found a better way to cover our hideous appendages than to conceal them in piecewise-complete rags?
Because the last time I wore a fuckling singlet, they called me "Sweet Pea".
And yes I said singlet. Beats the shit out of "unitard".
lilnemo, we don't say "unitard" anymore. that is unkind. we say, "mentally challenged."
They took them.
Unsung tormenters of our days, unrealized authors of our fate
the solitary sock or gentleman's hose
leaves the laundry hamper like an unseen ghost
while wise and foolish men alike search and curse and lonely wait
they slither behind the washer and lurk
or cling inside the dryer or the armpit of a shirt
while tempers flare and rise higher
and the unclad foot, forlorn, curls its toes in mute despair
and grumbling family members look everywhere
the single sock brings mystery to our little lives
its way of vanishing is very quick
a lonesome sock, in truth, frets hell out of our wives
'there are feet in them' the mundane say 'socks don't simply walk away'
each disappearance has us beat
but mayhap the poor socks tires of the reek of sweaty feet --
(gasp! choke!) 'O I have to get away! Give me air, fresh air!'
I can almost hear them cry as they slip off without saying goodbye.
That beeswacky is some kind of a fucking legend.
Ron Jeremy is a fucking legend.
Heh.
And so are you, dear Nostril, and so are monkeys all.
And generations yet to come may read the lines above and wonder how it was grown people disported themselves in such odd ways in what, to them, must seem like ancient days.
What is this? Some kinda karazy house?
Nostril: beeswacky's poem made me wonder if it's the right sock or the left one which runs away more often. Do me a favor and put an "L" on one and a "R" on the other of each pair. Please be sure to wear them on the appropriate feet - this is, after all, A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT, so playing around with the foot matching is not allowed. Please chart the disappearances and report back.
Thank you in advance.
Oh, yeah - be sure to use permanent marker.
There you go. Oh, wait... mmhh... that's really 'wrong'...
"or cling inside the dryer or the armpit of a shirt"
heh, my brothers being much younger than me - would often at school find their small size socks in the backs of my shirts (static cling being the cause). Found it embarrassing which would cause the lack of thought in returning them home.
Do you have other house mates? When living a lone, think the washing machine monster eats them.
Since they come in pairs, there loss is like Tupperware.
I really think that Nostril's wife (I think he has one) is using them for dust rags.
Nostril: email me your address and I'll start a drive to send you socks for Christmas.
(Hi, thomcatspike.)
They're in Narnia. With Mr. Tumnus. He took them from your dryer.
All hail the Bees! Once more you have outdone yourself.
Regarding the lost sock issue. I have a sox box. Everyone needs to have one.
Easy to make:
Take one cardboard box from your SO's favorite beer--in this case, I have used a Fat Tire box. Use magic marker to write 'Sox Box' on side. Fill with single socks, and place in closet. Shut door. Periodically add single socks as they show up. Keep box in dark and undisturbed unless adding more socks. Six months later, VOILA! You have a whole beer box full of unmatched socks.
Uhh, sorry, Nostril, can't help ya.
(Sidedish--I luvzit! From now on, I'm gonna walk around asking, "What are you, some kind of unitard?")
Crack.Me.Up.
Of Life's Many Troubles I know quite a few
Bad plumbing and earaches and troubles with you
But the saddest of all when it's all said and done
Is to look for your socks and find only one
Here are a series of single socks stacked in a row
Where in the workd did their fellow socks go?
Of missing SOcks we have very few facts
Some say cats steal them to use for backpacks
Other, Norwegians willing to risk
Prison to steal sock to make lutefisk
But conspirecy theories just don't hold water
Why would they take one and not tke the odder?
...
-Garrison Keilor, "The Solo Sock"
There's more, but my hands are aching too hard to type the whole thing.
I'm amazed at the stuff I've memorized over the years.
Al Simmons' immortal ballad. (mp3)
I'm surprised no one's mentioned Fox in Socks yet.
shit!
F8x in s8cks?
Stumbled over this, immediately thought of Nostril's missing lucky green socks, and had to add it:
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks...
Outrageous socks,
my feet became
two fish
made of wool,
two long sharks
of ultramarine blue
crossed
by one golden hair...
...I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as scholars
collect
sacred documents,
I resisted
the wild impulse
to put them
in a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdsees
and chunks of pink melon....
--Pablo Neruda's "Ode to My Socks", translated by Stephen Mitchell
Ach, should be 'birdseed'
Yay Neruda. I am a big fan of Octavio Paz, too.
Nostril:
Lost socks FOUND!
BlueHorse my lucky green socks are not in there. I AM BEREFT WITHOUT MY LUCKY GREEN SOCKS.
Uncle Nostril, are these your socks?
Nostrildamus,
I. have. your. socks. *evil cackle* They're in no danger, and they're being well treated... for now. Do not contact Interpol, or else your socks will regret your imprudence.
Now send me money.
This is not the place to say it but I hate Octavio Paz (not for his poetry but for his prose) and I got and evil grin on my face when his personal library burnt (which eventually triggered his own death). But now I feel bad for felling happy about that.
Never read Paz on Duchamp? Very good.
Sockless, Uncle Nostril wanders through the world -- (because he must),
a world gone dark and drear.
His toes soon gather dust.
He craves, at the very least, more beer.
No rejoicing can be his,
no smiles light up his countenance,
no gleeful heart in him may bound,
until his LUCKY socks (and these are green) are found!
Nostril: I want your sox.
Completely rubbish post. RIP.
'O frabjous day! Calloo, callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
-- Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"
'O frabjous day! Calloo, callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
-- Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"
And he just kept on chortling, apparently.
Though why I do not understand, since I only sent it once.
Must be gremlins.
It's a well known fact that gremlins, when not stealing socks, cause double-posting.
Sorry, Bees, you and Nostril are sadly infested. We must spray heavy-duty, highly hallucinogenic chemicals immediately.
These are the days when socks repose
in dresser drawers, for who wears hose
when going to the beach?
Our days are rounded, each to each,
with pairs of sandals. Free, our toes
tread waters which go up our nose.
Interesting, BlueHorse.
There is a mystery here: I do not understand why this thread has been placed in the rubbish heap, so to speak, when IT IS NOT A DOUBLE POST!
1) This was originally posted at 6:43pm UTC.
2) Then it was FOLLOWED by "Curious George: Where anre mysockspants?
3) And over and hour later, there was "Where Are My Socks?" posted at 8"06pm UTC.
tracicle, would you mind checking this? It seems wrong...or I'm wrong, I often am.
left offf the time of #2 up there, it was postedf 6:49pm UTC.
Should add, this may a frivolous post, but it is not a double post.
(And one I find highly amusing, obviously).
Unnnnnhh?
Not a double post? OHHHH! I get it. Like Nostril's sock(s)
...the urge to post such an assinine question to a site that is supposed to be devoted to 'the best of the web' and not something totally devoted to me...
Nostrildamus said it best.
It's not a double post, it's just silly, and we've got plenty of silly. And besides, it's a) not like it's deleted, and b) off the front page by now anyway, even if c) "double" posts are still showing up on the front page, due to some error on my part.
And the double post category is only called that for the sake of brevity anyway; it's really the redundant/double/irritating/insert adjective here/not-front-page category.
Thanks for clearing this up, tracicle.
I'd supposed Curious George posts operated under a somewhat different set of rules from other FPPs, though thinking it over, I can't recall when or why I reached that conclusion.
Realixe my sense of/relish for the ridiculous is not to everyone's taste. Lucky socks...heh!
I didn't mean to sound so harsh, sorry bees. I'd probably not be so picky if it wasn't for the fact that deleting a post isn't really deleting. I'm glad to have an alternative home for the frivolities, like this one, because then, I imagine, everyone is happy.
I'm not happy.
I can't find my socks.
Dude, I found it. Look up.
My fate is to be feared --
My lucky socks have disappeared
No man can tell me where
To get another pair.
I tire of hunting everywhere
In house and yard and human ken
And so I rave and tear my hair.
If they come wandering home again
I'll be the happiest of men.
Is this the new daisy_may thread?
Zemat: It could be--only time will tell.
Wolof: Phhhuttt! Don't like it, don't read it.
Bees: I'm with you. I LIKE silly.
Nostril: Obviously this sock problem is extremely troubling emotionally and most likely keeping you up at night.
I have one short word of advice.
Gedoverit.
Then go to Wally-hell. Buy new green socks. Problem solved. I'm sure Wall-Mart has green socks. A major fashion statement, I'm sure.
For those who have a daemon of sorts, resistance is futile, Zemat, but I will be surprised if this turns out to be a long thread.
In my case, absurdity is one thing that seems to trigger rhyme.
Yeah, I'm late to the party, but unitard? Cracked my shit right up. There's coke on my keyboard and my nose still stings...
The poetry of Socks is never dead!
I can't find my socks.
Learn the power of Google, nOOb!
Oh, socks.
My b, yo.
surlyboi, it was the footie pajamas with feet that ASPLODE that did me in.
Even the slightest reference to socksnow attracted the Fool's attention.
Once upon a time there werte three little foxes
Who didn't wear stockings, and they didn't wear sockses...
-- A. A. Milne, "The Three Foxes"
Thetre are over 148,000 entries for "socks poem" on Google as of today/
= there
/Curse of the Fat Fingers Strikes Again!
Let's make that 'Fat, Fumbly Fingers'
There are not words on Google that rhyme with 'humbly' so I want to do my bit.
You mean to tell me you use GOOGLE to make your rhymes???!!
You should be ashamed!!!!
What about 'crumbly'?
Bumble-bee?
Fumble-bee, I think
sums it up best.
Not humble
(bad buddhist)
but willing to bumble
with the best...
Dear Nostril, no, I haven't used Google to make rhymes...yet.
But if I could figure out how to, I might.
And why not?
What is so unusual or terrible or not-to-be-thought-of as that?
If it works, use it!
Pony boy, pony boy,
Ride along with me.
Giddy-ap, giddy-ap,
Giddy-ap, whoa!
My pnoy boy!
I simply can't think why the
Stevenson-Kefauver ticket woz such a Wet One!
"And why not?"
Ah, I was only jokin'.
Monkeyfilter: If It Works, Use It!
Nostril -- I do apologize for sounding tetchy there.
Have ye found the other sock yet?
the asploding footies rocked too.
Where are my pants? Gallery of famous people without any pants.
Ha! These are great!
More re The Pitiable Plight of the Sockless here.
sock metaphorical:
Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside....
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author travelled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the libaray. But the rumor
of itr will haunt all that follows in my life.
A canfleflame in Tibet leans when I move.
-- Mary Oliver, "An Afternoon In The Stacks"
= candleflame
How dear to my heart are the socks of my childhood
when fond recollection allows me to view
a knee-high black number which unfailingly slid
down my ankle to make a great lump in my shoe.
The limping, the blister, the breaking
and weeping, and raw skin a-peeling,
the foot in the bucket, and curses ear-aching
which rose through the ceiling up into the blue.
Ooh ooh has anyone done "The Joy of Socks" joke yet?
:^|
well poop.
a sock unseemly:
...Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall...
--from Shel Silverstein's "Messy Room"
Don't set us up like that Pete.
Google offered "about 90,200" entries for "lucky green socks" just now.
And "about 93,000" for "my lucky green socks".
And "about 32,000" for "missing lucky green socks".
Nostril, I now suspect their disappearance may be the work of a mob.
We must form a Sock Patrol!
Bees, you be the Lootentnant.
OK gang, we must be on the look out for 215,200 sock nappers. The perps may be wearing one green sock, or we may have 108,600 perps with two mis-matched green socks. These people may have K-Mart shirts and bad haircuts. Be careful. They are footed and dangerous and probably have a mob mentality.
...footed and dangerous...
Have a banana, BlueHorse
(drumroll)
MonkeyFilter: footed and dangerous and probably have a mob mentality . . .
And some have missing/mismatched socks, don't forget that part, pete_best!
I love walking outdoors at this time of year;
and today would be perfect if my socks were only here!
The leaves begin to colour up the trees
and now the hills apppear as gaudy as a patchwork quilt
and I'm well-dressed (except below my knees)
for inspecting hives of most-irked bees.
Of all the things I'd hate to lose-
I think t'would have to be my shoes
But when it comes to losing a sock
I truly believe I don't give a . . . clock?
bah! *crumples up post*
Pete's socks
have clocks!
I clean socks.
I clean clocks.
I clean my clocks
with my socks.
Do you like my
sock cleaned clocks?
A sock crock stocked chock with mock cocks blocks the pocked bock-hocking jocks flocking the rocky docks.
Don't cock-block pete's pocked sock crock, or I'll rock your jock. While wearing a smock.
*applauds*
bees' knees please three cheese teases on wheezy breezes sir!
*looks around slowly
I don't like the turn this is taking. Don't mention the word cock and sock in the same sentence*--remember there's one among us that puts socks to perverted uses.
*doh!
cocksock!
See how it stands unassisted!
Doing things upright again, eh?
In Which It Is Suspected, The Hunting of the Sock and its subsequent restoration to its rightful owner, may present, now, some indelicate difficulties.
No, Lewis Carroll did not write The Hunting of the Sock, an oversight which I deeply regret.
The socks of my dreams
are the luckiest socks
of all the socks I've seen;
each worsted thread,
like a leprechaun's tread,
is elegant emerald green.
The leaf of its heel
and the jade of its toe
are a sight to tickle sore eyes,
and the moonlight scenes
with the sock of my dreams
are not yarns to be told by the wise.
Little Miss Matched: mismatched socks for 11 year old girls.
Antinat is a new SOCKS server with relatively complete support for SOCKS standards. SOCKS can be used to overcome limitations of NAT...
Ah, fuyugare, you've sold me on the first one!
Am too technically incompetent to even think about the second one, unless with mute despair.
Ah, fuyugare,
my fellow madman,
from overseas
a sock of mute despair
keeps calling.
Bees actually has nailed the genesis of my green sock fetish: it has to do with Ireland.
Strangely.. not long ago.. I dreamed of Ireland.
were you laying back at the time?
Oh, hey. I found them.
Sockless through the world
the ancient sages wandered;
while sock-clad and shod, and often
having lost the path, we moderns flounder.
Your Delta Tau Chi name is . . . sockless
*uuurp*
Nostril! Look wot's here!
bees is kickin' it OLD school now.
She touched my Peppy, bees.
Good for her.
Wot I want to know is, was she wearing socks when she did it?
Can you show us on the sock where it was lucky?
Birds don't wear socks,
nor frogs nor lions.
And were socks worn
by ancient Mayans?
The first socks made
by the Unknown Knitter
were made to fit man,
that mysterious critter.
Bravo, bees!
Actually, some birds DO wear socks, albeit comprised of their own feathers. My friends, I give you the Cochin.
Clydesdale horses wear white stockings -- with horsefeathers.
Really.
Clydesdale horses wear white stockings
They don't like your silly mockings
They wear shoes that weigh six pounds
The better then to knock you down.
Ach, now, 'tis apparent ye are one of the light-legged breeds, BlueHorse. :)
The longer hair ye see on the fetlocks of Clydesdales and on Shires is actually called feathers.
No mockery, for I've been fond of these big gentle animals since I was a small boy allowed to feed carrots and potatoes to Widdershins and Rob Roy, a matched pair of black Clydesdales.
I love those big guys.
...for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!
- Gerard Manley Hopkings, "Felix Randal
Old times. Hooftracks. Where men went, horses too,
in peace and war; the timber logger's team
snaking out the trunks of the felled trees,
the covered wagons lurching west,
mounted troopers chasing through the bush,
horses and mules hauling artillary pieces
high up the trails and passes of the Hindu Kush,
the ploughman's team, the cabbie and what hauled his cab.
The horses shared men's lives, and death did not spare them
simply because they were horses riden or driven
into holding at the wrong time a wrong position.
Hay, now.
Ah, now we're on a subject that I could go on all day about.
A favorite:
Haying Horses in My Mind
Wally McRae
I see lathered teams in afternoon sun
Cutting five-foot swaths in yard-high hay.
I smell drying coils that the dump rakes spun
Of alfalfa and blue joint in contoured display.
There’s a buckrake skimming the ground, in my mind,
In controlled weavings, to even the load.
Overshot teams plod a monotonous grind:
”Git up. Whoa. Back.” On a four-foot road.
Modern Christmas-hued monsters on diesel fuel race
Faster than oat-powered Belgians I knew.
Freon-cooled air fans the pale driver's’face
Furrowed rubber replaces the hot-forged shoe.
Coming weather is heard on the FM band,
Not read first-hand in the westerly sky.
"Speed” and “Progress” the team now. Not "Classy” or “Sand.’
Modern haying’s a pleasure, I admit with a sigh.
I see a kid shooing pheasant chicks
From the few final swaths. Or picking clean
The outside rounds: pitching beaver-cut sticks
Crickward, a scout for Dad’s mowing machine.
Hell, there’s no nostalgia in diesel exhaust.
You don’t speak to tractors you step behind.
We’ve damn sure progressed, but something’s been lost,
And horses are haying somewhere in my mind.
And this one's for you, Bees.
The Clydesdale
Anonymous
Thudding hoof and flowing hair,
Style and action sweet and fair,
Bone and sinew well defined,
Movement close both fore and hind,
Noble eye and handsome head,
Bold, intelligent, well-bred,
Lovely neck and shoulder laid,
See how shapely he is made,
Muscle strong and frame well knit,
Strength personified and fit,
Thus the Clydesdale – see him go,
To the field, the stud, the show,
Proper back and ribs well sprung,
Sound of limb, and sound of lung,
Powerful loin, and quarter wide,
Grace and majesty allied,
Basic power – living force –
Equine king – the Clydesdale horse
Thanks, BlueHorse.
Lost! Lost! All is lost!
[A Lay Rendered By Aid of Conversations from the Gaelic into English by the Reverend D. MacInnes[
It is a long time since we have seen your stockings, Donald. John. James.
Did you put out the lamp? the cat? the haggis?
I fear me he has mislaid all the luck of him. them. us.
Pray tell me, sir, what use is that? this? anything?
Their maidservant will answer the door an ye knock.
It's almost twenty past six o' the clock.
Would ye mind repeating, for the cook's fogotten, whether ye prefer the pork ham or the mutton? the beef? the salmon?
Bring a notebook. Fetch a pen. Describe his socks for me again.
He is thankful he is back to the quiet of the glen. The cast of his mind is changed.
The loss of his green stocking has made him the unhappiest of men.
He repines in his bower, and there is so much grief in him his head is become nearly deranged.
You know, at this point, he might want to simply buy a new pair...
THAT, sir, was uncalled for.
'tis the quest that matters, not the prize.
Blasphemers, begone!
The sock matters!
Yea, for the cold foot says so!
If reason why we trudge
the weary miles be sought, it's this:
Socks give colour and dignity
to the otherwise undistinguished appendages
at the nether ends of our shanks
without which we cannot stand teeterless.
Besides, socks make us smile when we feel low,
socks are the fitted ornament of every toe.
Aye, dear sock, thy value's known,
and, seeking your mate, my world has grown.
The quest to find a pair, you see,
seeks for you, as well as me.
Wishing all hunters of such yarns the sweet small of sock-cess, islander.
Ack!
*grabs throat*
*falls backwards*
!!
I pause to ask a pertinent question,
Which thread is better for my attention,
The one over thar,
The one where we are,
Or a new thread's untimely invention?
Well, sock threads come in pairs, ye know, pete.
For benenfit of newer monkeys, this is the original sock thread. After the Collective Amnesia struck Monkeyfilter, the thread which sidebars as Black Sock (#4994) continued the diversion.
The Old, Old Yarn or,
Courting in the Old Days
Lass, thou hast a stocking?
I daresay thou hast two.
Mine match my nose,
Which is figuratively blue.
Thy stocking is grey?
No, I'll venture it's green
And brings thee good fortune
When laundered and clean.
Come sit here beside me.
I'll tell thee a rhyme,
And show show thee my stocking
If thou wilt show me thine.
My stockings end
about thigh-high.
Quite hidden from
the wandering eye.
'Tis true, I'm curious
to see yours.
But I'm afraid
you'd want encores.
*blushes
Heh, but of course, BlueHorse!
I'd like to see a wacky bee
Or flowers - like a posey
I wouldn't mind a sock to find
Or a visit here from Nosey
Cheers all!
*Quaff*
))) for ye, pete!!!
Socks
I think that none shall ever grok
a thing as lovely as a sock.
A sock whose mended toe, when worn,
will not abrade the wearer's corn,
A sock that knows not gods nor devils,
whose cares lie most with metatarsals,
A sock that's emerald every day,
whose colour will not fade away,
Within whose depths a calloused foot,
finds warmth and comfort that must suit.
This poem is free of moths and beetles,
And socks are made with knitting needles.
Warm that foot up
sock, sock
Warm that foot up
sock, sock
Put that heat on my feet make my toes feel neat
and Warm that foot up
sock, sock
take it bees!
when wearing socks of some disparity
ignore those twits who say it's a barbarity
and treat with contempt and not familiarity
those who rule that stockings have rigid similarity
and say that you're uncivilized, accuse you of vulgarity,
and don't treat you or your gaudy socks with the slightest civil charity
It's beesbert and wackivan! ; Cool!
With a left sock red and a right sock green,
your port and starboard are easily seen,
and those you pass, with your ankles showing,
will have no doubt which way you're going.
islander, wot a fine idea!
Have a banana!!!
beauty islander!
The ladies like to see me do
A turn-about and a little soft shoe
But with no sock my dance is kaput
Now all I got is a squeaky foot
*shuffle-ta-squeak-shuff-shuffle-squeakity-shuffle*
--From The Shufflefoot Blues
by Wild Melon Hauffenbauer, Esq.
Matching socks is vain,
man's hopes are but a bubble,
and our grasp on pairs is feeble --
if fortune or one sock should fly,
we find ourselves in trouble.
Mixing socks can be an art
In dark, they're hardly told apart,
So I give up without a fight
When black is left and navy right.
But when materials mismatch,
Now that's an easy thing to catch.
And nothing makes me more bereft
Than cotton right and nylon left.
He died, and now the socks are gone,
He died, and now the black we don,
Though all the words we spent to try to bring him back,
His determination was too strong to bide our lack.
Now his bird is ash & dust,
But that's not the reason his heart was crushed.
The simple knowledge that he's a fool,
It came to him that he's a wielded tool
By folly.
Without the strength to help even small ones close,
Words sent into the ether make nothing-notes.
Hurray! more sock poems than ye can shake a stick at.
Nice going, guys!
Even wise beeswacky hears not the words,
Of his old friend broken and bruised,
He cried once for help among the versed,
But all he heard sounds like a curse.
But here's the rub for all you folk
Unlike the sock, it's you that's the joke
The sock's a symbol, if you can see
When your life is mixed-up, you'll be lost just like me.
patience to the patient,
despair for the despairing,
I sing of single socks
and their un-pairing
no one can bear
another's sorrow,
and Cupid's bolts sink deep,
fly swifter than a mortal arrow
even great Zeus obeyed
cravings brought by that archer's shots,
and even Zeus was made dismayed
by Cupid's arrows, fletched with feathers
feelings, like waves upon a sea,
in anyone may rise and fall
and on occaision may rear up high
before they dash inland, submerging all
He's reserected! Yes, he's bee-n.
He's here again; our socks are green!
We said a prayer to get him gone.
We said several, not just one.
Socks were piled upon his grave,
As for his sins, they were forgave.
The simple knowledge that he was bare of foot
Was cause enough--his heart--ka put!
Thus we need simple tools, like knitting needles
to take care of the holes from beetles.
We must always darn the small holes closed.
For without crochet, we'll be decomp--hosed.
apologies and tip 'o the hat to K the Cat
can it get any badder than this?
Roses are red,
my sock is green --
the other got lost
in the washing amchine.
Roses are red,
My nose is blue,
and when it runs
makes me hoarse-y, too.
To answer your question about badder.
I love a lot of mixed up socks
From solid blue to argyle
From neatly stored in pristine rows
To tossed up in a big pile
I see a lot of rhyming verse
Some fanciful new quatrain;
But if our Cat gets in the pile
We'll just love it all the same
waiting for you
I'm a stone-frozen
lion
guarding a gate --
winged
but motionless
my mane
precisely
carved in commas
each feather
ranked and filed
perfectly in place
while the wind
sleets me
with sand
and I am worn
thinner
than a whisper
from a moon
of Mars
and the sun's might
shivers
all the baked air
for eons
around me
Thank you, thank you, thank you, bees.
mwah!
Ah, me -- foolish bees -- so hopelessly bee-sotted with monkeys he couldn't stay away longer.
If I had electronic arms be assured I would hug you, tick, but alas, we are made of airy nothing here.
And yet...and yet..
Welcome back, beesbashi!
Hi, Koko!
Been meaning to ask ye, how did ye rate user number 666?
Just the luck of the draw. If I'd known, I might have chosen a more devilish user name, like S4T4N!1 or Mrs. Antichrist, or something clever.
Hurray!!
*doffs cap, extends hand*
Have a seat by the fire. Your scotch will be served shortly.
Huzzah hooray! 'Tis a wonderful day!
*ook ook*
Welcome back, beeswacky!
<opens door> are you guys STILL searching for socks in here?? sheesh.</closes door>
MonkeyFilter: Sock Poetry By Craftsmen at Competitive Prices
Bees!!!!
*doffs hat, hums happily*
If I said I didn't miss you,
how I'd be lying! --
separation from dear friends
I find
feels too like a kind of dying.
Before I left I didn't realizxe it was possible to fall in love
with scores and scores of disembodied folk I'd never met or heard of.
But then, I'm not always very smart
about relationships which engage my heart.
/such a n00b!
The lion moves, yawns and stretches,
His mane is ruffled by the wind.
Royal cat, taking back his reign,
While apes, monkeys and all we wretches
Dance in celebration, and find
That bees-ness was an awful pain.
Pax.
Make that "bees-less."
Poetry is hard.
A tricky bee-ness 'tis, bee-ing away!
))) to ye, Help!
/me forgot bees came pre-loaded with bad puns . . .
*shrug*
By my stripes and bad puns ye shall know me, pete.
Sidey:
The socks remain lost, but we found the Bee!
woe
sliding down
one shin
the abandoned sock
sings
"I keep on
heeling
over
my strands
keep
breaking
now I'm
of my mate
divested
though woollen
worsted
always
I am
my own
worse enemy
and by
myself
am
bested"
I dreamed last night that I had commented in this thread, and Nostril returned long enough to tell me to fuck off. (Yes, I'm serious.) All I remember of the dream was reading his comment and laughing like a loon. So here I am, commenting in this thread.
I think this means I spend way too much time here.
the Great Northern Diver
or loon,
under the water's surface
plunges
through the floating face of the undrowning moon
arrows
below the waves to visit that Old Woman who sends
the seals
to knit the Undersea and middling earth together with dark luminous eyes
that shed tears
insuring that the seas stay salty
to the lanyard now I clip
my one last sock
of eldritch green
and run it up a high pole
to wave at that great dipper
which lets us sip from Hippocrene
Warm and woolly, lucky green,
the finest socks ye've ever seen,
I wore 'em walking, dancing, riding,
but they were shy, and now one's hiding --
I miss my sock of emerald green
it never came out of the washing machine;
two went in and one came out.,
Did the other go down the spout?
Licky sock, where are ye hiding?
Come ye here, your owner's calling
that so often trod ye low
and now
with one bared foot must go.
My darling indestructible sock ...
it is you [bites pen]
that tiptoes off and leaves me
feeling ... [scratches head] ...
um ... who, thew, askew ...
... um ...
*carefully slides shot of single-malt over to bees' desk*
Although my foot is bruised and
Although my mind's confused I
Thought for sure the indestructible
Sock would
Save me from stampeding emus
*takes a judicious sip*
O wonderful and indestructible sock!
Of you we write, though in you we don't walk,
Your woolly threads that longer last than iron
Sustain our spirits and keep us feeling fine.
Some day we'll glance above a world of unrequited love
Where missiles are stock-piled and species die out in the wild,
Above men's endless cities and the traffic fumes and roar,
And talk of peace by men intent on waging bloody wars,
To find the gods have placed you, sock, high among the stars.
ahh, the breath of life worked well I see :)
As a wee and scurrilous pup,
I assumed in the world of the grown up
That an indestructible sock was the goal of all the world
As a watchful, silent young lad
I regarded Our Leader a useless cad
Unfit to behold the indestructible sock unfurled
Now a wiser and mischeivious fool
I watch idiots pick worldy fights for fuel
The indestructible sock, and the living place its been hurled
))), pete, you've truly bested
the fears that politicians wrested --
through lands where hot words did prevail
your songs fall sweet as nightingale's!
Wellll ... suppose it's only to be expected, given the nature of this thread, but the sock poem I thought I posted here has vanished without trace.
Is this what you're looking for, bees?
Yes! Thank you, mct! Meant to pit it here.
Yup. D'uh.
hehe. So MCT found the sock . . poem?
*marks off list*
end o' winter song
I weep to be in stockings
now that March is here,
for whoever walks in stockings
feels, some morning, through his floor,
not the feeblest flame from the furnace rose
warming a man's cold aching toes,
while a fellow stops and feels the flue
to find not one puff is coming through.
'Twas the night before St Pat's Day,
and throughout this ancient house,
not a stocking was stirring
coz they were all soused --
all sudsed, they'd been well scrubbed --
stuffed in, by toe, heel, cuff and shin,
to fill the bin of the washing machine,
and there sodden they lay, the dullard brown, the sprightly green,
the uninspired grey, the somber black, the threadbare white,
through the interminable hours of the night.
Their long-accustomed laundress left these premises and lonely socks
to be further tended by unskilled men who pondered
doubtfully the instructions on the washing powder box
as about the need for bleach and softeners we dumbly wondered.
"They must be somehow dried!" one cried,
as we peered deep within the dark wet tub
from whence the water hadn't exited in its usual swift flood.
"But they're still full of soap -- look at all those bubbles!"
And thus began the first of our St. Pat's Day troubles.
flu
it came upon us
before we knew it
as the washer died
with its engine fried
we were all laid low
far too ill to go anywhere outside
so our socks soaked for hours
as we clamoured at the bathroom doors
every one
enduring unutterable horrors!
where are those doctors who made house calls?
where are the black bags and the magic potions?
where be the bringers of clear soups and good cheer?
gone, all gone, with the socks of yesteryear!
a fool in his seasons
in summertime he thinks
it's fun to swim
with the wild waves
dashing over him
in fall his head is
filled with wool
he's sad when he hears
a whippoorwill
in winter he shovels
tons of snow
and wonders why
it has to go
in spring his thoughts
such as those be
turn more on socks
and mystery
Bees is wooly-gathering again.
I miss my socks
as a hive misses honey
as a gull is lost
without the sea
I move by increments
through marvels
sometimes I fancy
a mystery
at others I long for
simplicity
It was only after my 82nd
Birthday
When I realized
It had been 57 years
Since
My lost sock had gone a-wand'ring.
I had lost track
Of time and bare feet
And now my leather sock was warm enough.
Greeting living creatures, how to, the Percy Bysshe Shelley model:
Hail to thee
[adjective of choice here] SPRY
[fill with name of appropriate appartition etc] PHANTOM
[name a type of critter] FROG
thou never wert
It is a sock's duty to
stand it.
toe the line.
honour the best foot.
avoid puddles and chewing gum.
cover the foot, never the track.
let 'em walk all over you. And in you.
to disappear when the time is ripe.
to fray if rubbed the wrong way.
you fickle sucks!
from drawer, from closet, from gym locker
from the dryers where they're drying,
from the washing machine
or off the clothes-line
they whixk away, are never seen --
leaving their wretched owners baffled and crying
for such is the way of the foot-loose and green
pancaked on the asphalt
by callous tires
lies a stray sock
once the joy of dyers
spangled now with frost
and dulled by mud
awaiting the street-sweeper
or cloudburst's flood
A stocking that's walking the roadside
with glee
is a stocking that's fled from its home
quietly,
for a sock in its dull round is usually stuck
with the breaks that it gets and the good or ill luck
that fortune dispenses. "Footloose, fancy-free!"
cries the stray sock, crossing fences
most stockings can't see.
merrily merrily
drops the rain
that makes the grass
to spring so green
and woefully woefully
out of luck
is he who has
a missing sock
new sock for old?
in the wind and rain
or subarctic cold
I shall not wear
its like again
Barefoot on a spring lawn,
both shoes and socks now are gone.
My socks await, safe in their drawer,
'til summer's end they'll wander no more.
A sure fun ender
is to step on a rock
with my foot so tender
without my lucky sock
I kicked my legs
one shoe went flying
and took my sock
and left me crying
come back! come back,
thou green and woollen!
so now its mate
is all I pull on.
Hot sweaty sox.
Amazing the difference
One vowel can make.
wendell, I love you!
What a difference a vowel made.
Just a change in the meaning
Brought the heat and the steaming,
Where there used to be socks.
My old socks were blue dear.
Today, they're a new hue, dear.
I'm sotted with you, dear,
Cause your puns are divine.
And for those of you who might not have listened to music from the 30s and 40s, the tune is "What a Difference a Day Made." The original lyrics are out there on the internet, but I couldn' find an mp3.
(Forksclovetofu, where are you?)_
awesome path - the Dinah Washington version is already in my head.
Stroll nonchalantly
toward the sock receptacle.
Don't stare. Socks can
vanish into air.
and no sock cares to be a spectavle.
Alas, affection for one's socks
is not reciprocated.
But folk do like them anyway,
and keeping company with socks
keeps me elated.
Socks calmly stride their way
and don't look back --
no plea nor shriek of ours
can stay 'em --
if socks could only speak
to tell their wants
or issue orders (I'd obey 'em)
perhaps we'd follow them upon
their solitary, silent track.
in what grassy plot or dingle
does my green sock huddle?
I called it, even gave a whistle,
yet to me it did not waddle,
nor with my bare foot seek to snuggle
I dislike wearing ties: they hang limp down my front
and get into my soup or catch splashes of sauce
and have to be sent for the cleaners to clean
unlike a wool sock which is easily washed
An overlooked charm
Now that I think of it
Is to fashion a wool sock
Into a puppet
With black marks for eyes
And hilarious patter
We'll knock 'em dead
Like a baseball batter
err . . yo?
what do you do when you write yourself into a corner? Eject?
Corners are places to catch your breath. Take it further by a step or two -- find out what happens next.
Where are the shirts
I wore ten years ago?
On whose back
did they amble off?
Were they torn up
at our parting?
I propose getting new socks. At some stores, you get quantity discounts.
My socks are not disposable!
indeed, it's unsuppsable
for my feet are always hose-able
and without socks they're froze-able.
In Roosha, you do not dispose of socks.
Socks dispose of YOU.
I always roll my socks together when I put them in the drawer, so why are they always mingled with strange others when I go to reach for a pair? Do socks have cocktail parties at night?
This being the internets, I'd guess cookie parties.
all gussied up and wearing galoshes
when the rain falls down
it's then I sloshes
when I wear these ancient Wellies
my socks gets wet
as serpents' bellies
You,
o still unravelled sock
that used to dive inside my shoe,
would you have stopped your secret flight
if I'd pleaded with you
through the closing night?
I should have thrust ye in the hamper
before ye left with silent scamrper.
I wear a sock upon each hand,
no longer wear 'em on my feet,
but keep one grasped in either fist --
my socks are full of sly deceit
I will not have them stray away
to parts unknown whilst I
poor fool, am left alone.
Folk look at me with guarded eyes
and try to sidle out the door --
how strange a pair of stocking mitts
makes folk think I've lost my wits!
A stranger man you'd never meet,
than Bees without his socks on feet.
If socks upon his hands he wears,
then are his pants just socks in pairs?
Updike lost his socks:
In Extremis
John Updike
I saw my toes the other day.
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, j'accuse!--
I hid them quickly in my shoes.
You are all geniuses. Someone's gottah publish this thread, preferably as an illustrated book..
Someday
I'll foot it fearly here or there
with all the missing and vanished underwear
leaving only this faded scrawl
to show that I woz here at all.
he liked to read
he liked to write
and while he was doing this
one night
one sock slipped off
beyond his sight
he glanced about
and couldn't see
where the darned thing went --
was mystery
hey! sock, come back,
he shakily said
but there's no reply
from A Vanished Thread
Emerald stocking, walking yonder
Whither are ye now, I wonder.
Why must ye stray? Why won't ye come?
Why can't ye be more stay-at-home?
There socks are lovely
hung with snow,
but in the summer
far less so.
I tread in cherries
to my knees
without my socks
to give me ease.
I pulls me almonds
to me knees
I think the moon
is made of cheese
Socks, lie pleasant under heel,
and don't abrade a single toe,
nor slither down in saggy wrinkles
that look so shoddy as I go.
Green woolly stocking,
so drippingly clean,
Why'd ye leave your mate
i' the washing machine?
Long, he peered into
the coalblack mirk,
and thrust in his hand.
He pu'd out a shirt,
and some shorts
and a terrycloth towel --
but no missing sock!
He unloosed a great howl.
He ran to the drain,
which still wore its screen,
yet there was no sock
in the damnfool machine.
He called for his pliers,
his gloves, and a wrench,
but his family had left him
alone in the lurch.
Some stockings are washed
In the sink with great care
While others are laundered
In the machine over there
My sock has no spare
It's even threadbare
Since I can't find my socks, here's a poem about feets:
Ode to Feet
by Doug Tanoury
I have seen poetic feet so perfect,
The very smallest units
Of patterned stress,
Soft idioms of Iambic
And drum beats of Anapestic,
That march across the carpet
In measured meter toward full-length mirrors.
I am the bard of bare soles
And naked ankles,
Of fallen arches and
Swollen heels,
Of toenails
Pedicured and painted,
That catch the light
Like so many cut sapphires,
All arranged
In descending order of size.
I have crafted couplets in Trochaic,
And started the heartbeat of lines in Spondaic,
For I am the poet of feet,
Perfect and imperfect,
Poetic
And otherwise,
Of bunions, bumps and bent toes,
Carried within or laid upon
A pump, mule, sandal or thong.
Copyright © Doug Tanoury 2003
to put on my socks
I sat on the dais
but after searching
every place
and asking people
all by wireless
I soon concluded
I'd been careless
and left it somewhere
in the palace
or else it was lost
by our laundress
or it left me
with some malice
with my one foot doomed
to step out bareless
My server told me
My socks were rejected
I'd misplaced the link
I wasn't connected
I looked under the sink
I scoured the floor
My sock was not found
My sock, 404.
Does anyone here know the Black Sock song?? I'm surprised it's not on here yet!
nice, Pete
and Bees, of course
I'm your sock poetry groupie.
*throwsunderwsocks
My sock was not found
My sock, 404.
Pure genius, bees. You justify the existence of MoFi all by yourself.
hat, that was petebest, at his best!
thank ye kindly Mr. Hat, but of course I agree with your conclusion.
To bees!
*clink!*
Oops! Sorry, petebest! I haven't been getting enough sleep. To both of you!
*clink!*
*clink*
any excuse to raise a glass of cheer
any excuse is a good excuse!
To poetry and poets!
*clink*
*clink*
To all lovers...
and lovers of poetry,
and lovers of the silences between words,
and all the lines that keep us strung by the heart the heels the head
while hurrying us from one wild moment to the nexr.
one sock has left me
the other one's right
we both lament
the coldness of uncovered feet
if I tread
on a cold tiled floor
I can wake the entire household
when I roar
One foot covered in thread
One foot chills where I tread
I dread the three AM
Wakeup call
And long to go back to bed
Argyles black and grey and green
the fairest sights his shanks have seen
ideal for walking in the cold
though some are darned,still, some are whole
a sporty dresser he is not
old rags and shreds have been his lot
his buttons gone, his elbows patched,
the poor fool's stockings never matched
Whose socks these are I never know
For bare feet come yet wool-clad go;
Folk seldom spot me in my seat
Knitting the socks which soon hold feet.
My little sheep must think me mad
To labour on so feet are clad --
Upon the twiglets of yon trees
New socks I hang, so take who please.
These socks are lovely, woolly, thick
Though knitting them is quite a trick
It promises to make me sick
It promises to make me sick.
This trackless waste is all too briary
for strolling barefoot after blackberry
or wandering past the new fish hatchery
and I do it without intent to be contrary.
My two new socks (both brilliant strawberry)
they somehow ceased from strolling with me
perhaps snatched through some fell witchery
removed, with my boots, through uncanny burglary
I've been the victim of some dupery
of some nefarious nincompoopery!
haha! Nice, bees!
I'll tell you what
I'm not wearing socks!
F*ck that!
Here I sit happily, enjoying
My patio, my piazza
A space for my toying
With naked feet!
Ha ha!
Take that! you damned socks!
As leaves crunch underfoot
World time ticks tocks
and I linger
slightly colder than the rocks
and resolve
to head in
for blankets
like a fox!
here comes the red fox --
so natty in his four black socks --
his fame is widespread
for curling up in a comfy bed
instead of trotting through the snow
as ice-edged winds come slicing through
Numbers
Mary Cornish
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count
anything or anyone:
two pickles, one door to the room,
eight dancers dressed as swans.
I like the domesticity of addition--
add two cups of milk and stir--
the sense of plenty: six plums
on the ground, three more
falling from the tree.
And multiplication's school
of fish times fish,
whose silver bodies breed
beneath the shadow
of a boat.
Even subtraction is never loss,
just addition somewhere else:
five sparrows take away two,
the two in someone else's
garden now.
There's an amplitude to long division,
as it opens Chinese take-out
box by paper box,
inside every folded cookie
a new fortune.
And I never fail to be surprised
by the gift of an odd remainder,
footloose at the end:
forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,
with three remaining.
Three boys beyond their mothers' call,
two Italians off to the sea,
one sock that isn't anywhere you look.
You found it GramMa!
the poem, I mean.
Philosocky
Jet-lagged, I knew a universe
of socks and missing links
exists, as sure as holes
exist in zeroes. Somewhere
beyond the chinks which fools have glimpsed
in our reality, a home
for homeless hose must be,
a vast safety-deposit box full of errant socks,
a boundless coffer of The Misstepped.
Having carefully folded themselves
through strange dimensions, they finally lie
breathless, sardined into tight stacks,
waiting for the glistening tin to split
and the Celestial Can-opener to unpeel their lid.
Ah, Bees, we missed you so.
*pulls on fuzzy winter socks and gets cozy in the chair
Sock loss seems to be
ubiquitous,
and when it happens, folk make
an awful fuss.
Yeah, I need a pair of those in green.
Green socks for Chyren
The factory is hirin'
Its a festive time in Monkeyfilterstan
the bees have returned
and all that i've learned
Is missing socks are still plagued up oe'r the land
Since heel and toe
go bare
I think I'm forced to buy
another pair.
For lo! the winter's
howling in,
my feet are blocks of ice
below each shin.
we hung our socks
by yonder tree
and hoped they stretched
to infinity
sing ho! for the season
of Ultimate Cool
of Yule Log and adults
playing the fool
I stretched a hole-y sock
Across accursed heel
And with every step
The thinning soul
Of concrete I feel
And so I rest
To-day is best
For me.
I hang my socks
from hooks and nails
I've hammered in
my bedroom walls
so I can see
when any flee
and notice any
vacancy
this makes the walls look
bright and quaint
but covers up
the tartan paint
I hung my stockings on the mantle with care,
When I got up, not a one was there.
Those damn green socks had taken a hike,
'xept for the one with the coal I don't like.
hehe nice one GramMa
When I was a lad
Our stockings were stuffed
With crumpled newspaper
"Not gifts!" I would huff
But now that I'm older
I've thought with surprise
That crazy green sock
Was prob'ly inside
I tack my stockings
on with pins
to stop 'em sliding
down my shins
one thing indeed
I won't abide
is a shoe with my sock
is wodged inside
is]= all
,,,I have measured out my life in missing socks.
MY FEET IS COLD
are you sure your foot are not colds?
I seem to remember reading that they can float up to the top of the waser basin, slip over the edge, and get caught somewhere between the basin and the outer casing. I never took the washer apart to test this theory.
What, feet?
I checked. They're not there.
Why Men Pray to Them
They eat
but do not usually
digest
our feet.
At the close of day
they restore
to us
what they took away.
What luck, ye think,
to find a sock.
But the thing is pink
as the tongue of a cat
and it seems too shrunk
for the foot and shank
of a half-grown brat
let alone the
overgrown appendage
with which, when walking,
I must manage.
My feet are cold,
And despite the yarning
My socks have holes
So I fall to darning.
Gentlemen I ask you
Consider the thong - the insouciant flip-flop
Created
To be without sock(s)
To never know their
Fuzzy rub
Their staticky lick
Their
Baffling
Dissappearance
Flip-flops seem like very flimsy footware. Horses may step on the feet of the unwary. What ye need are good, stout shoes, or better yet, boots.
They'd be be useless for hiking in the hills, too, by the look of 'em. Our landscapes here are on the rugged side, and the wise hiker will carry a snake-bite kit.
If I had a thousand socks, I'd wear 'em all at once.
(Except the one I'd use to wipe the treacle off my front.)
They'd pad my bony ankles, and they'd hide my knobby knees,
But I'd have to buy some great big shoes, some 30EEE's.
They wouldn't have to be in pairs - I don't mind darned or patched.
Once you get past sixty, who's to notice if they match?
And when I washed my thousand socks, I'd hang 'em out to dry.
You'd think I was a millipede, if you were passing by,
But, "No," I'd say, "a thousand socks for me are quite the norm.
Five hundred left, five hundred right - they keep me almost warm."
I'd wear 'em with my eighty bras, and panties one through fifty;
I'd put on bathrobes (twelve or so) and say, "Don't I look nifty?"
Booties, argyles, tubes, and crews, I'd welcome one and all.
I'd don the orange ones last; my feet would look like basketballs.
I'd jump out upstairs windows, landing safely on my feet,
Yes, a thousand socks are what I need to make my life complete.
O del;ightful, The Underpants Monster! -- have some ))) !!!
Hooray Hooray
**showers Pantsie with confoti and 1000 more socks in bright colors**
*wild applause*
*throws underpants on stage*
Beautiful, T.U.M!
Have some pie.
Mmmmm, pie!
Ridiculously good pantsie - i'm at once jealous, dejected, and inspired!
brava!
Excellent, Monster of The Pants! *throws more bananas*
**makes slashing motion with finger across throat**
OK, guys, that's probably enough. We don't want that Monster getting to big for her britches!
We'd have to call her The too-small underpants Monster
Flags, that kinda looks more like a meatloaf pie.
Ssshhhh, Blue, TUM almost had a bite of it! He he...
Not britches...underpants!
In this thread, the subject is always:
Who/What? socks, especially missing ones
How? the missing ones got to be missed
When? they disappeared
Where? the disappearance occurred
Why? why do socks do this?
and why o why do my socks do this?
why do they up and leave us
wailing of our socklessness,
hoppong up and down on one foot,
wondering where the damn thing's put
.
"For me, socks are like sex: tons of it about, and I never seem to get any."
I once aspired to be a fop
but no use fooling myself any longer --
some of us are clumsy, born all thumbs,
our cravats incorrectly tied, our
waistcoats stained and covered with crumbs
And socks down around your ankles, too. I'll bet!
I wear garters on occaision.
A man's a sorry spectable if he gets gussied up to play the pipes and his Argyles keep sinking and wrinkling. The other remedy for this affliction is to apply spats.
The Hot Glue Solution I deem to be overly painful and impractical.
Garters and gators
Argyles and spats
Sartorial Bees
wears stained cravats
Westcots and gloves
tails and top hat
Sartorial Bees
is a mess for a'that!
Whoa! I want no part o' such 'gators!.
What I wear at home for every day
resembles what the junkman flings away.
They try to pry my rags from me --
the fact is, They don't want the neighbours to see
my fuzzy collars nor my frazzled cuffs
and shirtfronts speckled as plum duffs.
These threadbare jeans have just got comfy --
No, patched elbows don't make me look frunmpy!
From all the latest fashions I wish to stay exempt
for I find it's far less trouble to be blatantly unkempt.
Coptic Socks
The Victoria and Albert Museum has mounted a special exhibition
of knitting ... The exhibits will include a pair of coptic socks from the
fourth-fifth century AD ... NEWS ITEM, 1980
Fancy the Copt
Possessing socks!
-- Elastic-topped,
Perhaps, with clocks.
What marvellous wool
From Coptic flocks
To last so well
In Coptic socks!
Some will get shockls
Who cast an optic
On knitted socks --
Then read they're Coptic.
-- Roy Fuller
It's still going! [*triumphant shout*]
After years of stuffing
My feet in too-small shoes
I just had tendons rearranged
Some bone removed
And then they put in screws
No glam high heels
Nor lovely thongs
No footwear bling
To dance and sing
My happy sarah song
Barefoot's not an option
And in our summer heat
Daggy though it be
Sandals worn with socks
Is the one comfort left to me
I think I need more practise...
Ha!
Coptic people lost socks, too!
That predates the washing machine. Well, there goes that theory.
For I am just a Coptic Sock
With little time for intrigue
But washing me involved a rock
And consid'rable thread fatigue
So I admit it, I escaped
I saved myself more beatings
Clinging to the basket's shape
I fell to the river's greetings
And now the Coptic Socks agree
We'll not be caught by no man
We're a Coptic Sock Fun Jamboree
A successful sock-led show band!
Banananas to all the sock monkey poets!
A city cop patrols our block,
And all he wears is Coptic Socks,
And as he walks his chilly beat,
He has no fear of frozen feet.
The cat leapt from my lap in shock;
That cat wore cataleptic socks.
He slept all day, arose to play,
Then down again to sleep he lay.
September sixth, at six o'clock,
My aunt wore antiseptic socks.
The floor was fraught with filth, but she
Had feet that stayed infection-free.
In Pharaoh's crypt, inside a box,
They found a pair of cryptic socks,
But when they saw the light of day,
He myst'ry crumbled clean away.
))), hurrah for sarah!!!
))), hurray for petebest!!!
))), and, for The Underpants Monster, hip hip -- so underpants won't fall down!!!
Oh, you and your Monkey Shines!
monkey shines his shoes
not socks
he takes the latter for
long walks
along the trails up
in the hills
his shoes are scuffed
his socks have pills
and they are cuffed
Double Haiku for a Single Sock, discovered in the dryer at 7:32 p.m., February 22
I had you two years.
That's a record for me.
My favorite socks.
You kept me so warm
That cold, damp November.
Now - one freezing foot.
Ode to a Single Sock, found behind the dryer at 8:05 p.m., February 22
O Sock! Thou equal warmer of left or right
(For thou knowest not discrimination,
Thy reinforcèd toe beseamed straight 'cross),
I joyfully reunite thee with thy solemate
In the middle drawer.
And now, thou no longer one,
Becomest once more you, my favorite pair of socks.
O, Sockadockadockadock!
Thou child of Target,
Thou hider under Casual-Friday-khakis,
Wonderful Cushioner!
The only thing betwixt me and the cold, hard reality of floor!
Heaven bless your marriage, cotton-rich twins,
For it has blessed me inside my character shoes
As I learned the Charleston in drafty rehearsal hall.
It has blessed me when six blankets were not enough.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As life without my socks.
*applauds*
*stands, whistles, takes off socks*
*changes mind, throws undies*
*stands, whistles, takes off socks*
*changes mind, throws granny pants*
Woohoo! Those are goin' in the scrapbook!
Where are my undies?!
beauty, too, btw!
*flings banana-filled socks in Pantsie's general direction*
The first cause of extinction
of the great auk,
formerly inhabiting
water-circled rock,
(and thinking safety lies
in company of its flock)
was that it lost a lucky
green sock.
The second was the sailors,
come to gawk,
who carried guns and pistols,
albeit flintlock.
I don't even have that one green one anymore. It's fucking fleed as well. Or is it fleeed?
fleded
fucking fleeed, I believe, mate
as in fleeewheeeskeedaddled
The last green sock
exited
The last red herring
wreckededed
Fuckall and Hellspit
The back of the drawer
inspecteded
a sockling pig
will soon grow big
if left to munch
its siblings' lunch
*whistles*
RAAAAH, YOU GUYS!
*takes off shirt, waves overhead*
*throws underpants monster*
I STIL HAF MY BRITE RED SOCKS THO
We're not from Aberdeen
Despite what you have seen
All argyles
Are guile.
We've learned to hunt, we check each boot,
our sufferings have been acute.
Keep a grip on your socks! they sneak
into folds of blankets and hide
themselves in negligees -- or in the
sleeves of shirts somehow get tied.
Dark mysteries of the laundry chute,
the hamper, washer, dryer --
those which were paired become unpaired
as mates dissolve into thin air
as if they burned in some bonfire --
ends for which we're unprepared.
When you lose your sock you bare your sole,
there is no defence from winter's toll,
a cold foot and trembling toes
result most likely in a runny nose.
Sock it . . . to Me?
*hands pete that prize you get for, you know, just showing up and being a Good Sport and all*
they placed inadequate dividers
inside my old sock drawer
so I don't use the damn thing any more
but it's been heaven for the spiders
who arrived with all their kin
meanwhile I have nothing
to keep my stockings in
Nothing to keep his stockings in--
The spiders weave in Wacky's bin.
No more socks of comfy cotton.
Bees' dresser drawer's completely rotton.
His stockings languish in a box,
Whilst Bees sits and sadly talks,
Of days gone by when socks were cherished.
Bees old sock drawer has sadly perished.
Whle Beesy sits and spins his rhyme
They steal his sockx eight at a time
they are unscrupu louses
who steal men's socks
that's why
I keeps mine under locks
when I carouses
all I can sing
is a sad sock song --
for all my missing ones
who should belong
back home with me
only they've gone on
like sheep on the hoof
socks can't stay still
always trying to find
some greener hill
but the fool who's
been fleeced
is not pleased
by his bare foot's chill
woolly green song
where the heck have ye gone?
I searched the old pasture
and the unmown lawn
but there's no sign of where
ye can have gone
what do socks want?
freedom now!
the absence of the sock
chafes the sole
Monkeyfilter: like sheep on the hoof, socks can't stay still
Bravo! And well tagged, pantsie!
Withered old topic
Like tears in rain, the sock's gone
I got over it
well meaning satire
valid point lost to us now.
asinine spelt wrong
Chy's sock 'spired us
Unfortunately, it's gone
He doesn't give a damn
eighty-one degrees
Summer, midnight. inert air.
still no fucking sock
One foot is in green,
Red is on the other one.
Long jeans cover all.
A sock, a point
Lost to us
Good is it all
Say it ain't so!
*lies through teeth* It ain't so. Better?
When I was a little girl I read all the Cherry Ames, Student Nurse books. There was a big elaborate scene in one of them where all the student nurses, who upon reaching their senior year were allowed to wear white stockings instead of black, gathered up all their blak ones and tossed them in the river. I always wondered how may fish they killed that way.
deep in the mind
our craving for socks
is balanced by loathing
of old smelly socks
you wouldn't want to come
within blocks
of these crusty
and threadbare and cheesy
darned socks
o down by the docks
they're burning their socks
and tourists come flocking --
the spectacle's shocking!
How can you rhyme 'sock' with 'sock'?? Who do you think you are, Ozzy Osbourne?
:D
Like a sock to a flame
Ol' bees is our Cantor
Our sock poems are lame
But his - witty banter
Huzzah for the sockkeep!
His footwear for waxing
Or perhaps in his barefeet
He rhymes more relaxing
Chy, I think it's called a poetic lozenge
Wool, and the sock I sing,
which, stitched by hand,
and smoothed upon a foot,
feels simply grand...
Mr Spork: Why do you wear those wool socks, Captain?
Captain Foon: So I can feel ... sheepish.
Doctor Coy: Bah!
:D
HAHA!
The Klingon sock
Is not prounounced
Nor even spoke
It's deadly lint per ounce
Revered
Among the warm-footed
Cold-hearted
Space race with starwool on
The Klingon
Do Not Lose Socks
I'd reccommend
ye never place
worn socks
beneath
your carapace
would I steer
ye wrong
old Klingon-face?
your last decision's
up to you
whether to trust me
or reek
and rue
Sock-face Ziggatsi
Sent all stoolies runnin'
The sockfia strongman
Would be smelt a-comin'
And Three-toes Marini
Earned his name one night
While casing the sock joint
He caught himself frostbite
S'alright?
o stocking green
as leaf (not bloom)
of chicory, have you
gone to ground
in some formicary?
yes, I deem you guilty
of sly trickery
who once did swing with me
in wild Terpsicore
=Terpsichore
Without my footsie wrappings
I feel quite incomplete
The world comes into contact
With the skin upon my feet.
I'm cold and lonely in the night
By day I bear the weather
The soles upon my old stump ends
Have hardened just like leather.
I'm angry with this issue
And I cannot quite control
My urge to stomp about the place
And throwing bits of coal.
The thing that now occurs to me
And no doubt each of you,
How can I go barefoot
When I wear me' shoes?
What party is responsible?
Well folks I blame the Jews.
Sprrriiingtiiime! For Hitler!! And Germanyyyyyy!
Now folks here's a tale
Both long and tall
About Chy and his farmhouse
It's both big and small
He stomps about knowing
His bad news coal throwing
With bare feet a-showing
Cause the bad smell a-growing
And here comes a big bird
Flys over the yard, see
It lets out a big turd
For Chy's bare ol' footsie
And he stomps about knowing
His bad news coal throwing
With bare feet a-showing
And a bad smell a-growing
And that big bird a-crowing
The bird turd just set there
And Chy's just a-glarin'
He'll figure a plan
To avoid turd a-wearin'
So he walks on his hands
Right past that big pile
To the cheers of his fans
For hundreds of miles
Still he stomps about knowing
His bare foot coal throwing
With a big smile a-showing
Still that bad smell a-growing
And that big bird a-crowing
And that Oz sun a-glowing
Now Chy's feat completed
He sits on the porch
His dinner is eated
And his J now is torched
So we say our farewells
To the man and his feet
And their unique Oz smells
And our tale is complete
Still he stomps about knowing
His bare foot coal throwing
With a big smile a-showing
Still that bad smell a-growing
And that big bird a-crowing
And that Oz sun a-glowing
And our song still a-going . . .
For Chy and petebest -- may ))) of amazement pile high on your plates!!!
I am moved and humbled. Socktacular!
those who make a mockery
of my sockery
shall not be invited
to have a daquiri
hickory, dickery, daquiri,
t' world be overfull o' quackery
hickory, dickery,
double daquiri
the new collie snoozes
in my bed
and leaves my sheets
all too dog-crackery
A collie needs socks
Like a bear needs a fox hound coat
Or I need a lump in my throat
Yo, I'm Doctor Sock, an' I'm here to Rock
I want to rap along about my missing sock
They call me Chy C, the ever lovin' man,
An' I never got the message bout no woollen plan
You scream and you holler bout the fact I'm a scholar
But I insist when I am posting that you send me a dollar.
Suckers send me socks,
But they got holes
So I reach into my box
For some fresher clothes
See I'm the bong cleaner,
Chymo the gleaner,
Vegie-type guy who never eats a wiener
Well I'm as warm as a monkey in a thermal blanket
I got the warp and weft for a sock-like banquet
So if you're hot to trot,
You think your socks are a beast
I got news for you dudes,
My socks reach my knees!
*throws it up, says "heyyy" / "hooooo"*
)))!!
Knee socks! Chy! You da man.
Socks are teh kewl.
Panty hose stink.
Dr. Sock in da house!
)))!!!
Dr Sock scores again!
*GramMa works dentures...
Dang these newfangled rappers with their bling-bling and their baggy socks!
A sock like noon
I'm a threadbare buffoon
Of no consequence
I don't make sense to myself
But I rhyme like an elf
Tiny forrested quips
My beat slips through the drawer
What I'm lookin for
The sock, green hose
For me feet, I knows it
Seems I shows all concerned
Not to get burned but again
Open it up, take it on the chin
My chagrin begins to my
Cold feet
Need heat
'Cause my shoes are thin
Stepping on rocks
Woah damn
Where's my socks?
*threatens to strangle Pete with her support hose
Wisdom Too Late
Never launder
a wool sock in hot water
or it won 't fit ye
like it otter.
please cancel my appointment
for how can I have
my portrait painted
by you, Vermeer
when one foot's bare?
it will not do
to have me
tuck it
underneath my chair
a fussy fellow
I just ain't
but I'd rather my
barefootedness
not be immortalized
in paint
Paint a sock
Upon his foot
Or make it look
Just like a boot
An oil would be lovely
forever after
A woodcut, divine
to make it last or
The true foot image
is done in plaster
Hear my lament
This sockless day,
A plaster saint
With feet of clay.
to daub mud upon
my scrawny toes
in lieu of socks
god only knows
shall never serve
to comfort foot
though clay
dry harder
than a
steel-toed boot
What's this I see, are my eyes fooling?
A feast for the eyes keeps monkeys drooling?
Found lost socks are sure to please
but ain't no find like found lost Bees!
AH HA!! By cracky!
It's our Beeswacky!
Burma Shave
Euphonious!
Hurray! Welcome back, beeswacky!!
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!
A sockless dance
Is quite in order
For bees returns
To the sockless larder
More honeyed poems
More buzzy rhymes
In the Monkey Hoem
In the Sockless Times!
could bee
you phoney us
just as
we phoney you
we seem to be
the silliest
animals
in this zoo
yet behind our masks
there's nothing
that we monkeys
cannot do
I got to thinking
yesterday morning
(this affliction
strikes me
without much warning)
how if I smear honey
on all six sockless feet
it won't make them one bit
tastier to eat
I have to envy Pan his hooves
which don't wear out, nor disappear --
they're just the thing for climbing rocks
unlike my missing wooly socks
knit for me by the hands of love
and irreplacable, I fear
The Sock's Yarn:
he stuffs me daily into his shoe
o I'm but a sock
so there's little I can do
but think
PHEEEEEEEYYYEEEEEW!!!
still I will not be condemned
although I shrink
and flee from such asorrysmelly fate
and ignoble end
instead I leave him barefoot
in the lurch
and in any case I do not like him
very much
The Foot's Stroy
He was
my
sole friend.
Feet can't spell very well.
You won't need the sock
When the weather is hot
And the foot's in flip-flops
And the other foot plots
I wear leather sandals
sometimes
in the summer
but having my feet
stick
to my insoles is
a bummer
so I wear socks
as well
when I climb
on the rocks
or cross the shingle
though I wear boots
when I adjust
a horse's
surcingle
Saul of Tarsus had two feet
To tote his bass's parcels
A cannibal he chances to meet,
Who liked a sauce of tarsals.
AAARGH!
Punning Saul, when he came-us
Off his horse he fell on his anus
It was a fit, or maybe fungi
But he claimed Jebus caught his good eye
And there he lay all in a funk
Decided to change the church a chunk
Til even James, who's Jebus' Bro
Said fuck up, Saul, you wretched Ho
You didn't even know the bitch you claim
Gave your ass a new damn name
But whether Saul wore socks or caliga
He never summered in sunny Malaga.
From missing socks
to wounded toes,
here is a catalog
of bootless woes:
of socks that, errant,
disappear
and won't return
although men, hoping,
call them here;
of feet that, sockless,
have no choice
but lamentation make
by way of rhyming feet
and human voice.
A stocking's both
a sad and silly thing
since by itself
it cannot featly sing.
You cadre of punning linguists!
Ye find folks pundittied it, petes?
This, mentioned upthread by SideDish, would seem
after a year, to have run out of steam.
You've really kept track all this past year, Bees?
*astonished eyebrows
Steamed socks are a dish
Best served with delicious puff pastry
I ate three and then, on a dare
And a whim, declared
I wish that all socks would be made free.
Viva! Viva! Los Sock Libre!
Tube socks, or not tube socks? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler for the feet to bare.
Spats cover a multitude
of sins
like who's wearing no socks
on his shins.
Go on, TUM! Take it to the hole!
Spats?!?! do they even still sell them? Do they require you to demonstrate that you can sing Puttin' on the Ritz to buy them?
I think we need to get spats (and hats) back into our fashion sense.
I have worn spats, but only on stage. You can buy them, but mine have always been homemade.
If ye play the pipes, ye likely turn out in spats on some occaisions.
Businesses catering to pipers still sell 'em.
I have spats sometimes.
Fits! Fits. I have fits sometimes.
If the shoe fits ... well, I hope ye put a sock on first.
On a related note, I have a picture of Mrs Chy at age 6 or 7 (maybe) doing the Highland Fling (or something). She used to win all those Highland Dancing contests when she was a nipper. Judging by the wet, the piper's spats have come in handy, but I don't think the macintosh is strictly part of the attire, aside from the name!
The girls in the back look pissed off.
If I posted this at MeFi, no doubt some wankers would say "it's photoshopped! her feet aint blurred!"
That's teh avv3som3!
Although I can see the grassy knoll's been brushed out, it's still a great pic.
But the Airbus and the rabbit? I call fake.
(Bonus points for the socks too)
Heh! Excellent, lassie!
Piping is performance art
so pipers have to dress the part.
Although these days, with reneactments happening everywhere, ye now get away with more period garments than the military/regimental style requires. Which is great as these aren't nearly so hot in summer as being under layers of wool plaid in a wool doublet and a shirt and undershirt as ye're sweltering for the edification of tourists or whoever.
An a bra wee bonnie lassie she is!
But the bag piper is duck-footed.
Duh, of COURSE he is. If it sqawks like a duck...
MonkeyFilter: sweltering for the edification of tourists
O wool ye no come back again?
No comfort's here for sockless men
and as we limp about the glen
we shake our fists at Charlie!
Charlie came in a terrible hurry
he took socks from Mackenzie
and socks from Murray
'Will ye give'em back? 'Oh, yes, don't worry!'
now we shake our fists at Charlie
Socktacular!
when I was but a sockling babe
my mammy said to me
'give coins and cats and cloaks away,
but keep thy stockings close by thee'
I took them to a sandy beach
to let them traipse as stockings will
among the crabs and urchins blithe
until they'd tripped and trod their fill
but then there came a loathly wave
and swept my darlings far from me
and now I weep upon the shore
with both feet bare, as ye can see
Beautiful picture, Chy.
‘The sorrow of socks’
Wendy Cope
Some socks are loners -
They can’t live in pairs.
On washdays they’ve shown us
They want to be loners
They puzzle their owners,
They hide in dark lairs.
Some socks are loners -
They won’t live in pairs.
Heh! That woman KNOWS!
there is a Monstrous Appetite
that comes in silence
or the dead of night
and steals away those very socks
we'd planned to wear
so when we attend board meetings
lo! our feet are bare
What is a comfort be thy sock -
And ne'er betwixt a toe'en
A humid shoe,
Hot sandals won't do
Thus praise the sock with poems
Mes pieds? Pas chaud.
Et froid est mon tête,
Je n'ai ni chapeau,
Ni chaussettes.
no hat have I for my feet
no stocking caps my head
my enemies filched 'em all away
while I lay slugabed
without me, my sock
has gone for a walk!
if this hadn't happened to me before
with appalling frequency
I'd faint from sheer shock
and lie stretched on the floor
pondering life's piquancy
The Missing Sock
Roger McGough
I found my sock
beneath the bed.
‘Where have you been
all week?’ I said.
‘Hiding away’
the sock replied.
‘Another day on your foot
and I would have died!’
The Joy of Socks
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
I have worn
the socks
that were in
your sock drawer
and which
you were probably
saving
for after a shower
Forgive me
they were clean
so fuzzy and so warm
O handsomely done, BlueHorse!
Nicely, GramMa!
Yay GramMa!
Them's some lovely sockwords.
I took my laundry to one of those places that wash and dry and fold for you. Two big sacks.
When I got them back, the laundress said 'I washed a LOT your of socks, but damned if any of them matched!'
I can't believe this thread is still going.
What am I thinking! Of COURSE this thread is still going!
Death, war, taxes, and lost socks, man.
Fer sure, rilly.
*contemplates mismatched socks, like, together*
I have an easy solution to the lost sock problem. I have a monochromatic wardrobe. All my socks are the same style and color so any two can match up.
All my identical socks are now 48 different shades of dingy.
All my socks are the same style and color so any two can match up.
*soothing voice:
Berek,
That's good. Everyone needs something to live for.
I tried the black sock solution
but it turns out all-the-same black socks
are an illusion
deceitful sock manufacturers
have invented too many variations
on the black sock theme
I have made a study of the variables
in black socks which prevent me
from being able find two matching socks
let alone place them on my feet
here is my report
indicating variable factors
among the 37 black socks currently
in my chest of drawers
and the laundry hamper:
material of which sock is made
style
weave of sock
ribbing on cuff, the number of ribs and the width of those ribs
elasticised or non-elasticized
emergence rate of snapped elastic strands in body of sock
placement of toe seam
placement of heel reinforcement
intrusion in toe seams of non-black thread, as for instance green, sky-blue, and white
blackness that alters after being laundered into blue-black vs red black vs greyish-black etc
shrinkablity
frayability meaning how fast will fabric of sock develop holes
pilling, meaning how soon will theose little whitish linty-looking excresences empimple the sock's fomerly uniform and sleek appearance
conclusion:
we MUST have mono-pattern and monodesign for black socks!
join the Society for the Promulgation of Monopattern and Monodesign in Black Socks today!
I just spray paint my ankles black and never have to worry.
Ah, the ol' Spats-O-Matic®.
But, bees, does it really matter what the part covered up by the shoe looks like, so long as you can find 2 which are close enough around the ankle that casual observers won't notice any different. And, when you're wearing boots, you could use Chy's lucky green sock on one foot and a purple one on the other.
Unless, of course, you take your shoes/boots off in the company of others. (Gasp!)
No, they're not lucky if there's only one.
Of course it matters, path! I'm Canadian and we remove our boots and shoes when we come inside.
Man cannot be well-dressed when his socks are unsightly!
And I am happy to say I don't own any purple socks. Not now. Not ever.
I have 37 unlucky socks.
Ah, Bees, Bees!
*shakes head
If you buy a brand of socks you like by the case, you wouldn't have that problem.
Com'on, let a little color into your life! Become enpurpled! You would be surprised what it will do for your feet.*
*GramMa would have never worn anything but boring solid socks, but now in her senility, she wears patterns--kittens in hats, frogs playing musical instruments, socks with monkeys and bananas! My feet are happy and dancing when I wear my new socks.
MonkeyFilter: Become enpurpled!
green socks bring
us thoughts of spring
and leprchauns hiding
in the Irish hills abiding
socks that are blue
when they stay in the shoe
are a main cause of blisters
for missuses and misters
socks that are red
are unspeakably sad
socks that are scarlet
are fit for a varlet
socks that are yellow
cheer the heart of every fellow
socks that are gold
keep your feet from getting cold
socks of emerald socks of jade
are the luckiest stockings ever made
socks of celadon socks of beryl
won't let you with the fairies quarrel
socks of purple are not made
in men's sizes the salesman said
so BlueHorse here is quite deluded
her vision blinkered, eyes are hooded
A purple sock is fit for verse -
A besotted bard could do no worse.
But should it be compared to green?
Religious nuts would make a scene!
But who shall tout the perfect white?
The sock of basketball, and of night?
A simpleton? A poet-lite?
Perhaps I may, try as I might.
a purple sock I would esteem
much more lucky than even green
in fact I'll peruse the Ebay wares
to see if I can find some pairs
sing us the song of the sock
that's white
a glaring horror throughout
the night
main cause of linting
my new black socks
and causing the poet
to out with vile squawks
so fie on ye, fie!
no more will I buy
The world of the socks
Is not quite as equal
As the lofty ideal
Of the world of we people -
When washing their odor
Away sort by color or have
Grey, pink, and polkadot
Socks to pore o'er.
As a girl I fancied handsome Mr. Osmond on TV;
His socks were just as purple, well, as purple socks could be.
I begged and begged my mother, "Can't we go to J.C. Penney?
For I would love some purple socks; let's see if they have any!"
Mr. Penney's taste was not as good as handsome Mr. Osmond's;
He had no violet Haneses or vermilion Hugo Bosses.
He had some purple-pomponed Peds, like tennis stars cavort in,
But not the orchid Argyles that the toothy lad was sporting.
Neither Sears nor Roebuck had those knee-high tubes of plum;
Though still a wee bit rock and roll, I felt so sad and glum!
I put a pair of blue tights overtop my tights of red,
But it didn't come out purple, like the crayon box had said.
"Mr. Osmond," I indignantly addressed the TV screen,
"You've led me down the garden path. Sir, you are quite mean."
He'd teased me with his lilac hose, and raised my girlish hopes
Of having legs the vibrant shade of summer heliotropes.
Then, my mother filled my day with wild, ecstatic shock:
"They had them at Montgomery Ward's. You've got your purple socks."
I danced around the living room in stocking-footed glee,
For now I could be just like Mr. Osmond on TV.
*stands on chair, applauds*
*throws shoes in appreciation of the poets!
Bees:
Of COURSE there are purple socks for men.
They even come in argyle
NO NO NO NO NO. They must be a SOLID COLOUR to be proper lucky socks. None of this fucking pattern nonsense (although I did find a pair of purple socks with monkey heads on them on Ebay.... GET THEE BEHIND ME SATIN)
My lucky socks are black! Well, all my socka are black. And all my underwear. And all my shirts. And all my pants. I have a mono-chromatic wardrobe. That way everything I wear is lucky!
Are uor lucky socks at lease particularly black? What about your lucky pot and fortuitous kettle?
OHHHHHH YEEEEEESSSSSS, they are so very black, black like Chyren's soul!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I can see you don't know Chyren very well. Chy's soul is the color of dawn, and sometimes sunset.
More of a chartreuse, really.
Taupe.
whenever I'm in the mood to mope
I chew a while on a bar of soap
and gaze at my socks without much hope
they'll stop being grey or charcoal or taupe
because black socks just won't stay black
and emerald socks go on long walks
all by themselves and without permission
just like I do when I go fishing
I want a sock with other strings
a thing of woolly yarns, no fancy things
a sock that will stay on my foot
once that is where I have it put
To have a soulful sock is fine
A lucky sock, the better
Some like chartreuse, and some the taupe
And some teh pink, or redder.
I have one sock as white as snow,
One black as Coca-Cola,
And one of each color,
Some brighter, some duller,
Invented by Crayola.
Heh.
Monkeyfilter Exclusive: Where the world's most SOCKsessful poets spin yarns for your diversion
Pssst, guys: somebody pass a hat, eh?
I wear one sock
I wear a unitard
I write sock poetry
it isn't avant-garde
You bet your sweet bippy, Berek.
You know, I used to think you had a weet bippy, but then I realized that you are one of the distaff members of the monkey elite. Imagine my disappointment. I thought the clubhouse sign said no girls allowed!
the hills are alive
with the cries of socks
who wander these sere hills
in lost knotty flocks
from the valleys below
come the shrieks and the bellows
of sock-forlorn travellers
lamenting with their fellows
'o my sock was here
but now it is gone
and I haven't another
damn sock to put on'
In wintertime I fill a sock
Halfway with uncooked rice,
And put it in the microwave
'Till it is hot and nice.
I take it into bed with me
To keep my carcass warm,
But even in that state it holds
A rather foot-shaped form.
So they call me Snuggles Three-Feet
(They don't, but hey, they could).
A mismate sock's still useful,
And rice ain't always food.
mice
think rice
is rather
nice
they eat
it neat
like corn
or wheat
if you
have corns
upon your feet
they may consider
you a treat
A bit of MoFi history for benefit of the newly arrived, the inquisitive, and/or the hitherto-baffled:
'Twas Nostrildamus started this thread.
As recall at the time Uncle Nostril was a wee bittie irked by a profusion of what he considered to be nonsensical posts. Posts that were insulting to the high carriage, rational processes, and innate dignity of monkeys who had not yet grasped more than the rudiments of flinging poo with wild abandon. (O we were young!)
He therefore decided to produce a thread of his own -- this one -- that would be so outrageously and exaggeratedly ridiculous that only mockery and woe would greet any such subsequent posts. He is uncommonly articulate, and if any monkey could have accomplished the feat, Nostril would have.
However, Nostril had not then become fully attuned to the True Nature of Monkey, who blunders always to the west, and respects only those things which shall be jeered at tomorrow.
Anyhow, faithful readers of this thread are aware Nostrildamus vanished for a time, only to manifest among us again as Chyren.
But now Chyren has vanished.
The acute eye of path I believe was first to spot this appalling subtraction from our midst. Chy's computer, its fan faltering for too long, has now apparently given up and fried itself.
I refer interested readers to Chyren's profile page so they may take whatever action/inaction seems to them most appropriate.
And now for an infliction of poetry, close to but not quite about socks:
My Shoes
Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice nests,
My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
toward their incomprehensible innocnece.
What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.
-- Charles Simac
I believe St. Nostril also lost a sock.
As to how
the other was lost,
alas I cannot speculate.
Perhaps it is that
which keeps the magic
X-ray Fez aflate.
shrunk sock at night
flapper take flight
shrunk sock at dawm
I can't pull it on....
in winter when my
socks were white
I washed 'em both
by candlelight
(the soap I used
was old Sunlight)
but when I went
to hang them up
one had been eaten
by the pup
after a Squalid
Interlude
I washed that sock
I did it nude
eight times I dipped it
in the water
but it still didn't smell
just like it oughter
Lost sock!
I have a mission for you. Go find Chy and tell
him that there are internet cafes where he could check in.
Sounds like he may be a bit too infirm to get out to a cafe. I hope lot's of monkeys can help our dear Chy.
I'm not *that* bloody infirm!
I'm posting from Bayswater library. I hope I can get away with it.
I will be checking in soon using my uncle's computer, but I will only have it for a day or so.
Rather thought that would get a rise out of ye once ye clapped eyes on it.
YEAH CHY!!!
You go, daddy!
YEAH CHY!!!
You go, daddy!
Woot! So happy to see you posting!!!!!!!
hi, Chy!
*knits virtual socks for Chy*
Yo Chy, your voice is missed.
Missing you mucho, Chymo.
they pack no bags
before they flee
and where they go
is mystery
they ignore the pleading
of the feet
to hasten down
some secret street
leaving their owners
in defeat
come back, dear sock
does not suffice
for a sock's aloof
as a bag of ice
and once it goes
it won't come twice
Afraid So
Jeanne Marie Beaumont
Is it starting to rain?
Did the check bounce?
Are we out of coffee?
Is this going to hurt?
Could you lose your job?
Did the glass break?
Was the baggage misrouted?
Will this go on my record?
Are you missing much money?
Was anyone injured?
Is the traffic heavy?
Do I have to remove my clothes?
Will it leave a scar?
Must you go?
Will this be in the papers?
Is my time up already?
Are we seeing the understudy?
Will it affect my eyesight?
Did all the books burn?
Are you still smoking?
Is the bone broken?
Will I have to put him to sleep?
Was the car totaled?
Am I responsible for these charges?
Are you contagious?
Will we have to wait long?
Is the runway icy?
Was the gun loaded?
Could this cause side effects?
Do you know who betrayed you?
Is the wound infected?
Are we lost?
Will it get any worse?
To which I add with Chy in mind:
Do I have one green sock missing?
We count our socks in twos,
A conceit of having two good eyes and two good hands.
The sock does not know of our pairing. Twos?
The sock is the sock. Unique. It is its own sock.
And yet the sock likes other socks, and seeks them. Some socks put the sock right off, some socks have their heroic deeds sung to the heavens by a joyous, appreciative, applauding sock.
Socks that we still have are easy to count, are precious, and can go on being their old socky selves. But socks we have lost become countless, our memories wear out more quickly than they.
Let's not forget our lost, green sock.
Hey, Ralph, have a banana!
Sockulicious, RTD!
Sockulicious, RTD!
My daughter has a whole drawer of unpaired socks.
It's like a support group for widows.
Well said, RTD!
I'm going! I'm going!
Though my pace is halt and slow.
I hear their gentle voices bawling
Sock, damn you, don't go!
I sing a sock
A sock I sing
A thread's a many-tangled thing
A footwear thought
A thought for feet
A poet's many-tangled treat
Four four oh-five
Alive and more
With missing sockey tales galore
Socks Choose Their Own Mates
Oh, my voice is sad and low
And with barefoot step I go
For with laundry load o'er laden,
All my colored socks are fading.
Will you pair up, little woollies?
Will you fill my sock drawer fully?
Little sockies answer "No!
Thank you for your kindly proffer
Though you added Downy soft’ner
Yet I must decline your offer--
I'm engaged to So-and-so!"
What rebellious socks to taunt me!
Leave me in a mismate quand’ry
Every stocking in my launry
Is engaged to So-and-so!
single socks in droves march by
none are mine; this makes me cry
these are black and grey and white
I count the darned things every night
Sock Wars!!
The Rules
1. The first rule of Sock Wars is, you must talk about Sock Wars
2. The second rule of Sock Wars is, you MUST talk about Sock Wars.
(no really, for this to be a success we need as many combatants as possible)
3. Two socks to a fight
4. One fight at a time
5. No shirts, no shoes, just socks
6. Fights will go on as long as they have to
7. If this is your first time in Sock Wars, you have to fight.
The Revised Rules, or I Am a C.O. in the Sock Wars
1.The first wisdom about yarn: 'tis easily snarled.
2.The second rule about yarn: no two lots match in colour. Even though the label says they do they don't.
3.Two needles to a yarn to knit or thumb and a finger for sprang.
4.Tell only one yarn at a time. Otherwise the characters in it get hopelessly muddled.
5.No yarn, no socks; no socks, no luck.
6.Some yarns are never-ending. But the ones you knit with have to be tied together. With a knot.
7.If this is your first yarn use a double knot. It will make a great ugly lump and come untied in the third chapter.
woolgathering
by the windbreak
I lay down
the socks from my feet
were all windblown
I went to wash them
in a windburn
and my windpipe played
another turn
my windbag drones
among the rocks
where breezes fill
my old windsocks
Hee, hee, hee, I love that Bee!
An evil sock-fairy has charmed them away;
I haven't worn a matching pair since last Saturday.
I've searched the laundry and the pantry
and even tried the kitchen entry
in case by some odd mischance they were flung in a pot
but it seams they were not.
O 'tis no idle chatter
but a fact that's sweet:
socks really really MATTER!
Scientists discover
when socks lie over
chilly feet
it's easier to have an orgasm.
a pair of socks allowed 80 per cent rather than 50 per cent to reach a climax
Poor p_b, I wonder how long it has been for him now?
Excellent prose and post, bees.
Prose?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I've forgotten everything I ever knew about windows.
Well, well, well. Look what the socks dragged in.
Hurray!
Chy, are ye back with us now, or is this another quick look-in?
Yeah, I finally got back. And a new sleek computer thanks to the generosity of certain wonderful simians! I am still tweaking it and trying to figure out how to get back all the things I had before. I saved all my data (this time, remarkably!), but I have literally forgot how I tweaked windows xp to be how I like it. WTF? my memory is like a seive. I backed up my firefox profile and for some reason when I put it back nothing took, I gotta remember all the extensions I had. I forget how to make hidden folders visible & can't find my application data folder! I suppose smoking all that dope over the years really has destroyed my ability to lay down memories or something, like they warned me.. whoever they were. I am not sure this floor is entirely stable. [bleep doop bleep]
I got a new neck brace & a fez. And some beer.
My old loyal computer, my old interface with the world, my old brain, sits like a rotting hulk on a table, its innards gutted & forlorn. I had literally driven it to the last possible stages of use, the getaway car driven to the last mile, it threw a rod. Dead. The only data I lost was my Ella Fitzgerald sings Cole Porter files - the HD had bad sectors on that part. I musta burned 4-5 coasters & wasted a whole bunch of dvd disks trying to figure out why they wouldn't finish burning. Anyway, I'm back. I have to catch up on everything. Apparently the world ends soon?
Belcome Wack!
The Chyman's back and there's gonna be trouble...
(Hey la, hey la, the Chyman's back!)
Buddhists like drinking pee!
I also hear they like to pull their intestines out and wash them in the river.
Those crazy guys.
They need washing. sometimes you have to move your bowels. I generally keep mine in the same place, just here, above my arse.
Have I ever mentioned that Rolf Harris is Satan? Literally. He is EVIL.
Woo0T!!1!
Welcome back Chymo!
Tie me kangaroo down, sport.
Eh?
Cheesy great electric donkey bottom biters
Once, in the darkness, Danny LaRue frightened me
Would that be donkeys that bite bottoms, or people who bite the bottoms of donkeys?
me, perhaps?
Cheesy? Check
Great? Check
Electric? Double Check
Donkey bottom biter? Hmm...I'd need to examine the photographic evendence to be sure.
The sky is falling! The sky is falling!
Hey! Chy's back! Whadda say there, ya' ol' chicken plucker?
*resumes running in circles, flapping arms, screeching
somebody give GramMa her stash back!
Hola, brave Chyren.
btw somebody's probly a hit-list of new monkeys whose virtual kneecaps you'll probly want to break for their noobish sins.
Yes but I've been thoroughly emasculated in that regard, methinks!
Say it isn't so! You don't want to abandon me to the task of trying to get the Noobs in line. I'm so bad at it.
Yeah, but I read on the log that Monkeybashi doesn't like my satirical use of funnay images as a n00b LART. Maybe after I send her her pwesents, I can gain some points. ;)
*snkk* - He thinks Trycicle is a "she" :D
n00B!!
Thought Tricycle's a collective.
Hurr-rye! We have a Chy!
I like socks.
Psst! Chy! I think she did it!
*hums quietly, glances furtively*
/not being drawn
The other day I thought of something that is like socks and ballpoint pens in its nature of disappearing, into some n-universe or braneworld, never to be seen again. So, dutifully, today I sat down to mention it right here in this very thread. But I could not recall what that item was. This leads me to believe that the quality of an item that leads it to become missing* exists in this particular object in so much abundance that even the concept itself becomes lost from the brain.
Then, mere seconds after I started this post to explain my shameful memory loss, I remembered: Forks.
I have plenty of knives, and a myriad of spoons, particularly dessert spoons, but I have seemingly less and less forks. This is a pity, as they are my favorite utensil. Apart from that indefineable old victorian utensil from the back of the cupboard, for which no adequate descriptive term exists.
*I propose that this n-quality, the propensity to go missing, should be given a name. I have no clue as to what this should be, thus I submit the proposition of naming it to the distinguished and learned group of gibbering simians here gathered.
Sorry guv, no forks in this one. This 'ere's only socks and sock-related serendipitous disappearance rumination. Though you're welcome to look 'f course.
Ah, and one "Underpants Monster" which 'as been allowed in.
*dances about wearing garland of stray forks*
I believe the quality should have a name with the same venerable quality of terms such as "phlogiston" or "caloric."
I propose we henceforth refer to it as "kleingrok," or perhaps "Steve."
I have the same problem with butter knives. We have heaps and heaps of spoons of all sizes and forks and chopsticks (quite enough for a party of twenty and more), but barely a handful of knives. Sometimes the number drops to a dismal one or two. It's weird, innit?
I wholeheartedly agree with middleclasstool on the need for something that sounds like phlogiston or caloric. (Perhaps the place whence socks disappear is into the Aether?)
Alnedra, what you report is very interesting.
Absens? Disappearum? Aetheric?
Prestochangeomeric?
Abracadabric?
Vaporiston?
Perdiquity?
Forkonicaligistical occurences
I used to have wine glasses go missing every so often, but remedied that particular mystery by drinking it straight out of the bottle.
OK, that did make me LOL, rocket88. Nice one. :)
How about Avolaton, from the Latin avolatus, to rush away; flee or vanish?
Or even better, Abolaton (because it sounds a bit like abolish), from abolesco, decay gradually, wilt or disappear?
So you might have, abolatonic or abolatonism. "It was full of abolaton, so I couldn't see it even though it was right in front of me," - as for your reading glasses or my wallet.
Have you seen my car keys? They seem to have abolesced.
I like it!
Hoffacularity
awolly
thinairity
decamperous
elosticity
gonitude
fleebitten?
Those blasted gonitudinous forks!
I second Steve. Steve is always a good name choice for something, say a dog, that one cannot come to agreement upon naming.
For our purposes, some sample sentences:
"I just put that fucking pen down someplace, and now it's gone Steve on me."
"Has Chyren fucking Steve'd this joint? He hasn't posted here in months."
"If I Steve one more half-empty pack of cigarettes, I'm gonna go ballistic."
"Sorry, love. The damn thing just Steved on me. It's not you, sometimes this just happens. Really."
Political usage: "You can't just cry Steve on this. The whole fucking war was based on their having WMD's."
Artistic usage: "Paradise Steved"
Business usage: "Enron stockholders were left with little but Steve in their retirement accounts."
Supersubtractionism.
Boojumic.
Cheshirescattyness.
Gategateparasamgateslamism.
Amscrayedandawaystayed.
Flude.
I do like Supersubstractionism. T'others have tied up my tongue!
Disappositioned.
Miswent.
Invisiblated.
Missocked.
Spectrized.
Utensibout.
Now, what the Steve were we talking about?
Utensibout! hear hear!
*bows, faux-modestly*
mesocked
methought
the left
the right
all in the darkness
of the night
when morning came
I scratched my head
as feet in meters
off did tread
John Sockling a poem:
Tell me not, Sock, thou'rt unkind
when in the dim of day
I cannot find thy wretched mate
and wonder
wot the dachsund ate.
horses walk upon their toes
men don't, our feet much more
like those of bears that trek
on ice or shuffle fallen leaves
and don't wear loud striped socks like these
I'm wont to find
that sock
Though filthy,
But mostly won't or can't
These indicted dogs
Are found
not guilty
Although they did chew the plant
Sock-net #2
Sock weather comes upon us once again,
As unshod summer stretches out behind.
The time has come to dig them out again
And see which ones have mates I cannot find.
If I were smart, I'd wash them all in May,
Dry, mate, fold, and diligently store
Each pair, not needed in those warming days,
In the sepulchre of the bottom drawer.
But no, the springtime rushes to my head,
So in the hamper's bottom lie the socks
Until September's lingering warmth is dead
And bathroom floors are far too cold to walk.
June days spent washing winter clothes are lost;
Forget your socks until the autumn's frost.
I loves socks.
I hate winter.
NO! NOT WINTER!
Toes...so cold. But my flip-flops make me free!
Nice one, Monster!
the young hen broods for days and dreams
of future flocks
but my groans I can't suppress when I purchase
brand-new socks
for thinking of the ones in days to come
who'll disappear
while around my shanks I've only unmatched pairs
for men to jeer
socks are finite
and allotted
to darned folk who
sock-besotted
try to pair a black
with blue
or cram the cringing
things into
a Wellie or a boot
but such folk
are not acute
can't see ahead
for before
the week is fled
their socks will all
be vanished
more sock loss!
the collie never touches them
the Oz-dog leaves them well alone
but the dachshund is a wicked beast
she raids the bedrooms, then she feasts
she eats the toes
she eats the heels
ignores the cuffs
at these illicit meals
A thick white sock above
My soft white flesh beneath
It keeps my tender ankle
From the kitty's teeth
how sock searches broaden the mind
in Indonesia they wear a pair of kaus
(no, no, not cows!) but rarely
and when one disappears they say
life's treating them unfairly
in Hungary folks look for missing zokni
and when one cannot be found they fling
(no, no, not poo!) but themselves roaring on the ground
and say a devil's stolen it to mock me
A devil may that dachshund be,
A sock-ssesful footwear bandit
But I've a beagle-mix, and me
I cannot understand it
He knows the rules and boundaries
And times I would not care
I find the pilfered socks but these
Are pilfered underwear!
How many times have I exclaimed
A hundred rhymes are said
The sock absconding still remains
But underwear!
Well, that's a different thread
could it get worse?
I lost a sock
and I lamented
I wrote in verse
my other garments
now resent it
my hats keep falling
off my head
my winter boots
have lost their tread
my flies won't open
or won't close
high time I bought
some new ones I suppose
Noble Socks o' Nova Scotia
ye banks and braes
do not be dour oh
though I sing in praise
o' bonny Truro
wi' blithesome tread
I step lively
to Truro from the
Bay o' Fundy
both feet in Argyled
socks are clad
and wow! but I'm
the lively lad
let lasses wonder
did we or didn't we
as we yarn our way
due east to Sydney
<pedant> northeast </pedant>
[unless you were heading to the Strine one?]
pedant-tick?
Ouch! Ooooh! Dangit!
*grabs punny-bone, hops around*
Socks disappear throughout the year
but in winter it seems clear
some do not scruple socks to steal.
They raid my closet and my drawers
and argue: this is mine not yours!
The largest socks they like to hang
yet back again they do not bring
the woolly or the argyled ones
but hang my socks till Santa comes.
"Why has MoFi turned into a site where we help people find their fucking socks?"
September, 2004, and MoFi was on the fast track to Hell.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled Pablum.
Bye, Chy.
Hey, RTD, he's been reincarnated before. I'm hoping the next one will be less caustic but just as silly.
If this Christmas is like others,
What was lost will soon be found,
For sisters, aunties, Mom, grandmothers,
Soon will gather all around.
We'll celebrate the usual way,
The merry, chilly Christmastide
By filling the socks we hung that day
With many smaller socks inside
.
Someone please help me, I've lost one grey sock puppet with a toe hole! Have you seen it??
You're the toe-hole!
tee-heee
*runs away*
im in ur soxAh-HA!
Thread title check one. Testing. Testing.
Have no fear, RFID socks are here!
Meh. How'z about Wizpeg? Nah, I'll pass on that too. Life just wouldn't be the same without a missing sock.
This one was too obvious, but I just had to check...
Almost one year! The humanity!
Thred title check one is complete. You may carry on.
Where the socks go!!! (video)
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