From the history of socks section: For a long time, stockings were a privilege of the rich, as the manufacturing was a guild secret.
There used to be sock-maker guilds? Awesome! I bet in the guild, sock-makers got each others back. They keep it real, with secret hand-shakes and everything.
I can't believe they have a download section offering a 1.8 MB jpg of socks on a clothesline. WTF? But I do really like the pictures of the founder wearing a suit, with shorts, and socks pulled up to his ears. If any can convince me he always dresses like that everyday, I might buy a pair.
I thought such specialized sites like these disappeared in the Dot.bomb meltdown. Do you monkeys actually concern yourself with "convenient" aquisition of black socks?
Secret foot-shakes, dude. Foot-shakes.
Nostril: Welcome to the Ancient, Mystic Society of No-White-Socks.
Erm, possibly I shouldn't have let that out of the bag.
A special sock bag?
Shut Uuuuuup
Like a nut sack?
no, a fanny pack.
Apparently, Mr. Knickerbocker, they've been around since 1999, so they've survived the dot.com crash and burn. Which means they must have done something right (i.e. not taking all of their venture capital, if venture capital they had, and using it to buy lots of fancy chairs and automobiles).
And you don't buy a pair of socks, you buy a, um, sockscription. Well, you can buy a single pair, but they seem to be leaning towards the whole series of socks at specified intervals model. Useful for those like Neil Gaiman, who seems to have difficulty keeping socks.
Psst, Sandspider, I didn't ask the dot.com question, but I will pass it on.
Psst, BearGuy, these guys are still in business!
Yeah, I noticed they're still in business, but I guess my unstated question was, "Why?" Ordering socks online just doesn't seem like big draw. But I could lead a sheltered cave life full of beer and chocolate.
About My Sockscription
Accept no sockstitutes!
For years it appears some galoots
have been doing things, and themselves, all wrong.
Mea culpa, long sockjected to delusions,
failing to eat or embark upon some yellow sockmarine, the songs
we hear grow insockstantial, freighted with the world's confusions.
Beer of the Month Club
Chocolate of the Month Club
Sock of the Month Club
What more could a BearGuy want?
Lo! I have found what may well be a Clue!
The Eater of Socks looked up at the wizards cautiously.
Then its jaws started to work again.
...grnf, grnf...
"Here, that's one of mine!" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, making a grab. The Eater of Socks backed away hurriedly.
It looked like a very small elephant with a very wide, flared trunk, up which one of the Chair's socks was disappearing.
--Terry Pratchitt, Hogfather [bold added]
BlueHorse, I like the way you think. (-;
I bought 4 pairs of deluxe black socks last week. Because I wear 'em.
Deluxe black? Or Deluxe socks? Which is it, man???
They are one and the same!
It is by socks alone
I set my mind in motion.
It is by the juice of safu
that the bod aquires socks
the socks aquire black dye
The socks becomes very black indeed.
It is by socks alone
I set my mind in motion.
Choose socks. Choose a wool. Choose a nylon. Choose a pair of garters. Choose a fucking big sock closet, choose sock washing machines, foot-warmers, compact disc socks and electrical sock-openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and podiatric insurance. Choose fixed interest sock-mortgage repayments. Choose a starter collection. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece sock on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing sock shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your sock. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up socks you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose socks.
Monkey poe-ets.
Monkey feelossyop-phers.
And socks.
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black sock
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Ya putcher left foot in
Ya putcher left foot out
Ya take the sock by its toe
and ya shake that mouse out.
Damn, gentlemen, that was worth waiting for! Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!!!
Just a bit of sock-related plagiarism, bees.
Shh! Not plagiarism when about socks.
And it woz so very pretty!
I wandered lonely, without my socks
all slippin' low by burn and glen,
when all at once m' garters broke,
my argyles slithered down again.
My wrinkled heel! My wrinkled toe!
Blisters and limpin', wouldn't ye know!
Yet another from a Man Who Knows About Socks:
"A pair of socks?" she said.
"Right. Wear 'em," came the mystery voice hoarsely.
"Thank you, but I've brought several pairs --" Polly began.
There was a faint sigh. "No. Not on your feet. Shove 'em down the front of your trousers.
....you don't bulge where you should bulge, either. You know? Lower down?"
-- Terry Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment
Had not considered this possible cause of Sock Loss before. And am not sure now how to go about checking to see whether someone of inadequate endowment's got a lucky green sock in their...um...private stash. Life is fraught with Mystery!
fugugary - are you channeling Alan Ginsburg? There's something very 1950's about that rant. I can hear the bongo drums in the background. ;)
I apparently can't spell names tonight.
Now stop and think about it. Would you really WANT your lucky green sock back if you had to wonder where it had been?
bees - great book! And great timing - I just read it this week :)
Heh.
Me, too, jb.
well, now, do we gape or gawk
if we discover an errant sock
doth strut its stuff
as a (falsie-d) cock?
'tis not for me
to seek to see
without an invitation
so I'll stay shy
of bulging fly
resisting all temptation*
*(except those of course
from a certain bawdy horse)
This is, like, beeswacky's on-line flirtatorium. Kewl +1!!
Carpe-thian diem! And nya-ha-ha!
Wolof, nor have I forgot those clucurrans berries, mon cher bonvivant!
*twirls a growth it is fondly hoped may turn into a moustachio of distinction yet*
I have a pencil-thin one at the moment.
Good! Have ye found that missing sock yet, mate?
I've long suspected that all the socks that disappear from the dryer somehow end up with quonsar...
And has anybody said "SOCK IT TO ME!" yet?
Nostril, I do SO hope you mean a pencil-thin moustachio.
yes, moustache.
And no, can't find the sock.
I think I could turn and live with socks, they are so flaccid and so tubular,
I gaze and gape at them long and longer,
they do not twist or stretch about their position;
they do not toe the mark by day nor weep for their shins in the dark,
they do not spin me yarns about intelligent creation;
not one is dissatified -- not one complains about the mania of spending things,
not one politicizes food or cars or talks my ears off with how they heat their feet,
not one heels toward anger, not one cuffs his fellows in a frenzy,
not one is unlucky or fundamentalist over the whole earth.
Yeah, but they smell.
like roses, right?
right?
There's a blue sock on my right, and a red sock on my left
but my lucky green sock has simply upped and left.
How can I find my way through each bewildering day
with out some green, without my pair of lucky socks?
How can I put my best foot forward, how can I move along
without singing the lucky green sock blues song?
wooOOOOoaaAahhhoooooo . . .
I lost my good green sock -
the one that brings me luck
And now my feet are cold -
But no one gives a {beeep}
I-hiiiiiii . . need a touch o' green -
to win the lottery and such
It's lonely standing here -
I miss that sock so much
But now I don't know
what to dooooooooo . . .
I got tha -
Lucky sock . .
Bah-loooooouuuuuuuuuuueeeeeeeess!
*big finish*
*Applauds, after wiping snot off the screen*
Hey, hey - go, pete!
YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!
AAAAALLLLLLLLRIIIIGHT!WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOO!
Give it up for PETE--THE BEST!!
*chants
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
PETE!
*waits expectantly with wet towel knowing that underwear will be soon tossed from stage
B
I say B-O
B-O-X
B-O-X-X
Box
B-O-X-X
Box, box, box, box.
S
I say S-O
S-O-C
S-O-C-K
Sock
S-O-C-K B-O-X-X
Sock box!
Oh, he's got him a cape o' the cloth o' gold,
And a pair o' shoon with a velvet sheen,
Yet till seven long yarns were spun and told
His lucky green sock was not to be seen.
"Oh, who is this hath done this deed?
This ill deed done to me,
To steal away my one green sock
And bear it over the salty sea?"
Bees! Do you have Nostil's lucky green sock?
Bees, we've found your Sox
Perhaps we should organize a knitting bee.
Wouldn't Bees look fetching in a pair of those sox and this?
Ach, ye clowns are out to shift the thread's thrust to a hunt for socks which I haven't lost.
Those bee sicks are devastatingly beautiful, incidently.
But I will not be swayed, for it is Uncle Nostril's sock I seek.
It is his LUCKY sock!
It is green!
Have ye seen the like?
I ♥ sox. Hot sox.
=dammit, socks!
Where the bee socks, there sock I.
O slay me with dragons!
My socks and my giraffe they comfort me.
oooo bees, thou hath forsoothded! heh.
This is bullshit. I call SockFilter.
Wrong forum, bone.
Heh.
Monkeyfilter: all forum one and one forum all!
Bees has moved directly from honey to the mead.
I saw mead in the store the other day - is it worth a try? Do you drink it over ice?
And do tell bees - are you all about the mead?
Well, to my mind mead is not worth a try. Insipid stuff. If honey ye must drink, better off with a cup of hot tea into which ye've swirled a bit of honey, as when ye have a cold.
For choice, whisky. Straight Scotch. And none o' your nonsense about water or ice in it, either.
Now Drambuie
tastes a bit like Scotch with honey in it. Sticky stuff.
But to this tipple I say pfui.
(But wot do I know? Only wot I like.)
Socks, lucky socks, I know not wot they mean,
Socks from the drawer where other socks lie ranked in pairs,
To glad my heart, and fill my days with glee,
Those days now fled, I am no more serene,
But weeping for the pair that is no more.
I wore mismatched socks again
I got another pair just like 'em
...five toes are red and five are blue
They stay up when I hike 'em.
...they're colourful and make me smile,
Guess I've got so I like 'em.
..but pantyhose has much allure
if I Reebok or I Nike 'em.
O'er Turkmen land I stride so grand,
As for me kilts, I haik 'em;
When used as tents, they seem immense,
Before I finally strike 'em.
Camerado! this is no sock'
Who touches this, touches a Heel...
My sock, it has holes
in the toes, in the sole
Ah me! What I need's a darning!
With a needle and thread
I could make them mended
And Lo! My feets would be warming!
I'm just a sock alone,
everywhere I groan,
people know I'm going
pairless.
There will come a time
I'm washed free of grime
and careless.
Be alone
No more
I will find you
Where
The scent
Of your soap
Will lead
To us
My lonely sock
Has always wanted to go
To run away
To join the puppet show
It whined
And stared out the window
A face drawn on
And a high-pitched "hello"
"Go" I said,
"And take care, although -
If you want to come home
You can, you know"
fin
This is a Dog license with the word "dog" crossed out, and "cat" written in in crayon!
Heh!
Why, give a dog license,
he'll romp over your bones,
redecorate your furniture
with strands of hair,
strew bits of kibble on your carpet,
shove bones and biscuits
behind the cushions of your chairs
and sleep, if ye have to leave him
alone in the house, with his nose in your old shoes,
simply because the fool misses the smell of you.
*snif* that's beautiful beester!
My sock, oh sock be-toed and bright
In the sock-drawer, stuffed in tight,
What arthritic hand or eye
Could knit thy fearful symmetry?
Go and catch a falling sock!
Get with child a bandicoot!
Tell me why the sea is salt,
Or why Godzilla isn't cute.
Help me to hear the prices rising,
Tell me why it's not surprising.
And where
To fare
And when to buy another woolly pair!
A left, a right
A drawer full of sock
Successfully fight
Or say what the fork.
dang - medic!
"This morning I woke up and couldn't find my socks . . . so I called information"
"I said, 'Is this information?' she said 'Yes', I said 'I can't find my socks' . . she said 'They're behind the couch.'"
--Steven Wright
Mr Wright is sheer delight.
And knows about socks.
green
how I love you
green
sock
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of socks departed
The left has gone and so's the right
And left me broken-hearted.
Hey, I'm a Poe-ette!
Socks! I'm sorry I spurned you in the summer.
Socks! I beg you! This cold is such a bummer!
Please come home. Sandals did well in heat.
But now I need you, warm, on my feet.
Socks! Where are you?
A stamp of the heel, a turn of the cuff --
Does each sock sense when it's had enough?
Stockings have long been famous for running,
And clearly some are full of cunning.
Between the lauindry basket and the door,
A sock slips off and then is seen no more,
Socks are obdurate: though owners curse and roar,
"Come back!", a missing sock will spurn its owner's drawer.
I find you missing
Woe is me
Was is the lint
That made you flee?
Was it those nasty reeboks
That once got wet?
Or too much garlic
Which fouled my sweat
I can change
But without you
Only once.
Those socks who remain in perfect pairs
regard the lone ones with scornful stares.
What have you done, they often say,
to drive your errant mate away.
The Trashman comes and goes,
And darkling are the Crows,
The Moon doth without light,
Though folk peer round they see no sight --
Fishies in a turgid pond
Obsessive all with dark Beyond;
The streetlight's on! and giving more
Brilliance than was the case before,
And now I know, for what it's worth,
That there hath passed a stocking from my drawer.
Let us bow our heads and pray that all socks will be made holey.
The world is charged with the grandeur of Socks.
They won't weep out, like sweating from shook folk;
They gather to a grayness from the ooze of soil
Worn. Why do folk mend now nor wreck their rot?
Generations try, have tried, have half-supposed,
Yet all is seamed with thread; enriched, stitched with toil;
They wear man's smudge and share man's smell; their shot
Is paid now; nor shall foot freeze, being hosed.
Oooooh, Bees, thank you.
I like:
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
And sock threads!
Take, O take those socks away
That so recently were worn,
And whose yarns, like well-baked clay
Chafe my foot with something foreign:
So these stockings wash again,
Wash again,
With suds of soap, nor soaped in vain,
Soaped in vain.
This thread socks!
*bows*
ahem...the OFFICIAL black socks song...
black socks, they never get dirty,
the longer you wear them, the blacker they get.
some day i'll probably launder them,
but something keeps telling me, don't do it yet.
not yet, not yet, not yet....
(sing in rounds until vision blurs)
back in high school my friends and i used to use this song as a measure of distance. for example, the drive from my house to jennifer lefeaux's was 15 rounds long, and from her house to either piper baier's or sarah o'connor's (they were on the same street but in different directions from the intersection) was another 38 rounds. going the other direction from my house, it was 190 rounds to ann-marie erie's, but only 55 to eugenie bagur's. got all that? good. O.K. now how many rounds of black socks would you have to sing if you left ann-marie's, went to lunch at sarah's, then picked up me and jennifer lefeaux and took us to eugenie's party?
Delightful, sexyrobot!...and here's an UNOFFICIAL Black Socks Song...
without socks, how far can we go?
we simply don't know
if we'll make it past the rainbow cafe
said eugenie speaking sanely
it's clear sarah has no idea
no telling either how far they could go,
she and eugenie, and ann-marie
walking with jennifer lefeaux
and then all four walking still more and more
black socks heavy-laden with secret dirt
a secret compound of scales and scurf
and grit and foot oil ground among the fibers
to go with them wherever they tread
aromatically scenting their every step
(no one will know 'cause the dirt doesn't show)
all of them trudging on for blocks
and blocks, growing footsore
in their stiff black socks
their feet go crunch, their socks go crack
but they've gone far too far to go limping back
I remember fondly the day
the group did away with Daisy May
And founded a thread in which to play
black socks.
Evil socks you tempt my brain,
Frig my asshole again and again
Up and down with a hairbrush handle
Sometimes thrusting a lubed-up candle,
Thus again you thwart my needs,
My lucky socks are lost in Leeds.
Evil socks, as black as death,
Sniff some coke, some horse, some meth,
Speaking backward satanic rhyme,
Wearing sandals all the time!
Our Nostril goes no more to Leeds, a town that's bad.
He plies his bong in a world gone wrong, and seemingly mad,
Or he sits and scowls and sucks a hookah,
For he'd two socks with him when he came,
But only one lone joy came home again.
Poor fellow, reduced to wearing sandals,
Now he fears black socks and roamin' candles!
Now, listen and attend!
Sweet gods of woolen blend,
He's phrasing his lament in rhyme,
So before he goes around the bend,
Send him a new pair by summertime!
Oh, let them be the kind o' sock that's never lost,
The sort have luck to keep a man from feeling tempest-tossed,
And let them be seen to be a lushly verdant, emerald-green,
And the luckiest-socks to be worn! Oh, and easily cleaned!
in the factory, lo!
people pass to and fro
bearing assorted ballcocks
while of Michangelo
they incessantly talks
with his best
and worsted fine milled socks
No entry found for ballcocks.
Try looking up each word separately:
heh.
And double heh!
These yarns are too much with us: footed and shoon,
Wearing and mending, we lay waste what's knit,
As little birds before great rainfalls flit;
We have frittered our Socks away, a sordid boon!
This Sock that bares my toes unto the sky,
Once a companion eminently fit
To share my joys, is now a thread-bared forfeit,
Up-gathered now I bear it, say good-bye:
For this, so wan a colour, I want to dye,
It moves me much -- Sweet Gods, I'd rather be
Clad in raiment far less grey and flimsy,
I crave a stocking, warm and bright, to keep me dry,
That, like Apollo, high above the land and sea,
My trail will blazon, as I brilliant fly.
That is no closet for new socks. The old
In other drawera, shoes heaped upon the floor,
-- Their laces partially untied -- and fraying through,
The footloose yarns, that unkempt owner wore,
Dreads, treads, threads -- travail with great ado
Whatever was unwrinkled, weft and warp,
Pitched headlong into crowded closet, such neglect
Affronting a would-be wearer's intellect.
I've never seen a poet so inspired by a single sock.
Imagine what a pair would do!
Bees, email me your mailing address, I want to send you a pair of socks for Christmas.
I have desired to know
Where socks not fall,
Where feet through doors slip in and then out sprawl,
And amazingly go.
I haven't asked to see
Whence new socks come,
Whose fingers knit longer than moonlight is dumb,
Socks out of the price-range of me.
You want to send *him* some socks for xmas?????
/collapse
Whaddaya want Nosey? He bid the price closest without going over!
I'm going to say the shower cleaner is $1.49, Bob
Yeah! I think we should start a sock drive for Nostril. After all, he started this whole lost sock thing. Poor guy, he's still mourning for his lucky green socks.
Yes, Nostril needs lucky socks!
His expressed preference indicated emerald green, as best I recall.
Yes, but would it inspire him to write good any poetry?
Bees, would you rather have the striped kind with toes in them?
(psst, guys, I was thinking more a fuzzy purple hat for Nostril--don't spoil the s'prize
YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE:
NOSTRIL's socks are lost and gone.
He has no lucky green socks
to put on.
So, go! Find some tea.
Remove the earpicks
which Alnedra put there.
Use them wisely
to clean one ear,
then the next!
NOW, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
NOSTRIL needs socks.
So please:
don't give 'em to bees.
Thank you.
AWW, thanx beeswacky! I didn't know you knew my lady friends...anyway, just lying here naked except for my black socks, checking out your MoFi profile, sighing wistfully, and thinking to myself, "yes, yes, but it'll never work out. I'm really more of an ant person."
sexyrobot, rumour has it heroic glowworms make brilliant companions.
yeah, but are you going to scrape the propolis from your ass and meet us at irvs on friday at the mofi meet? oh yeah...and something about socks....mmm, socks.
Very apt for the subject and the season
SOCKS - PABLO NERUDA
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
that she knit with her
shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft
as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet
inside them
as if they were
two
little boxes
knit
from threads
of sunset
and sheepskin.
My feet were
two woolen
fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly,
navy-blue sharks
impaled
on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds,
two cannons:
thus
were my feet
honored
by
those
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
I found my feet
unlovable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
those incandescent
socks.
Nevertheless
I fought
the sharp temptation
to put them away
the way schoolboys
put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars
hoard
holy writ.
I fought
the mad urge
to lock them
in a golden
cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon
every day.
Like jungle
explorers
who deliver a young deer
of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down
in shame,
I stretched
my feet forward
and pulled on
those
gorgeous
socks,
and over them
my shoes.
So this is
the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty
twice over
and good things are doubly
good
when you're talking about a pair of wool
socks
in the dead of winter.
Yes, this is a fine poem, BlueHorse, one of my favourites --'twas also on the old original socks thread, before our Archival Amnesiac Blackout, alas.
Never seek to tell thy socks,
Socks that seldom fold for me,
For the weary rain doth fall
Silently and foggily.
I told my sock, I spilled my heart,
Said she must never leave,
What I did was not too smart:
She's left me here to grieve.
Did she absently forget,
Go with some passer-by?
Off the clothes-line she did flit
And left me here to cry.
Ladies & Gents, there's news to be sent,
I've got a little something on my chest I need to vent.
I don't need no socks, I need no cloth,
And tho' I must admit I'm loath
To admit:
My feet are warm and cosy,
My chubby toes are pink and rosy.
Tho' I lost half a green pair
I'm sure it's in the vicinity somewhere -
I joked about the socks so dapper,
Cos' my humour is weird like Zappa.
So to make this cheeky chappy happy
Please send me an ounce of some wacky tobaccy.
Time to cancel the Sock Drive!
Otherwise Nostril could be buried alive
in a deluge of socks which monkeys send
to cover the feet of their Uncle and friend.
To Uncle Nostril SEND NO SOCKS
lest we have to hear his outraged squawks!
Tho' I lost half a green pair
I'm sure it's in the vicinity somewhere
Attention, Athena, great hunting-divinity!
Help Uncle Nostril find his stray sock
Lest he be searching to infinity.
Does this mean that the socks meme no longer has legs?
The poetry of socks is never dead.
Only lost, and then reposted
Yes!
Luckiest of socks, the green one now
Adorned with lint that clings like snow,
Must stride among the leprechauns
As emerald as an Irish dawn.
Exactly, you've pegged it. It is indeed the Irish factor that makes the socks lucky. You have seen into my inner soul, mr beeswacky.
It was Green! Green! Green!
We've spent hours and days a-wondering where he's been.
When the soap-suds all ran out,
He was gone, beyond a doubt,
Though we hunted through and under the washing-machine.
Where does the light go when the switch is turned off?
Where do the eggs go when you close the fridge door?
Where do the bullfrogs go when ye open the freezer door?
Him name hopkin freezer frog.
PS I'll find my frog.
When holes wear into the heel
It becomes
Tied into the other sock
A Jack Russell Terrierist toy
Grrrrrrr!
A Clue!Mysterious thick green socks that you can
*applauds the Jack Russell tear-ier*
tick, I think ye've stumbled on a Sock Waystation. These are not usually known to the public.
Where did they come from, these thick greens socks? Owner doesn't remember.
Or perhaps, the owner can't remember!
Can these socks induce amnesia in human beings? It would explain much.
Theis person seems to regard the thick green socks as comfortable. Adds they seem to disappear on their own.
Very suspicious!
Hmm.
I think we know the kind of socks these are.
All too well.
These aren't the socks you're looking for. He can go on about his business.
Can't remember? Or won't remember.
Jedi Sock-Trick?
/head explodes
Pile the stockings high, and stop us flinging poo,
Double them under and let us write
I am the socks: I cover feet.
We are the hollow socks
We are the stuffed socks
Looming together
Codpieces plump with straw. Alas!
Our fibrous whispers, when
All's yarned together
Are woolly and wonderful
As boiling to dried peas
Or mares' nests among the trees
In a back woodlot.
Ah, socks!
Simple foot pleasure,
We're friends who treasure
The comfort we bring.
We're not mysterious.
You are delirious,
If you think we don't sing
To ourselves while we cling
To your toes and your heels.
Your foot is our king.
Feety pajamas on in 10!
Where every seal reclines on rocks,
And shoes abandoned lie,
The traveller searching for his socks
Must fare as ill as thou or I.
Ol' Nosey may think his position's quite sucky
To be adrift in a world without his socks, so lucky
And yet I'd agree that life would be neat
With lucky green socks to warm my feet.
Gooooooo Wildcats!! YAaayyaayayaAayy!!
*pom-pom jumps*
There is a garden
by your foot
where sometimes
lucky socks are put.
Nostrildamus getting angry
When they call him 'Old'
He's 34 and looks so young
But his feet are cold.
A pox on the socks that walks without ye.
Heh. We'll make a Scot o' ye yet, BlueHorse.
/joke
Boiling Broth of Scottish Blood wells within my veins
Celtic fire burns twice as hot, every time it rains,
My eyes like pissholes in the snow, or pokers from the fire
I cannot find my fucking socks which raise my drunken ire.
My ears are two fell caverns that attune to songs of war,
My mouth a gaping beacon belching words to shock a whore
And tho' ye might not think it, my prick's a claymore sword
Unsheathed, I'll diamond-cut a path to find my foot-clad hoard.
)))!!!
Hail to thee, brave Boiling Broth of a Scot!
Young Uncle Nostril, with two flame-red eyes,
Who's first to point out tommy-rot,
Erupting like volcanoes spouting to the skies,
Foul-mouthed and furious, but never vain-glorious,
Our Nostril, whose wit is always good for us,
Enlivening, and making everybody wise,
Man of great heart, which cannot be disguised.
I'm making my friends sing the Nostrildamus drinking song next time we go out. A hiley-hidey-hiley-hidey hiley-hidey ho...
Clocks can be a part of socks,
the reason is sublime --
in one sense this allows them
to run all the time.
# Here's an easy
# thing to say....
# New socks.
# Two socks.
# Whose socks?
# Sue's socks.
# Who sews whose socks?
# Sue sews Sue's socks.
# Who sees who sew
# whose new socks, sir?
# You see Sue sew
# Sue's new socks, sir.
# That's not easy,
# Mr. Fox, sir.
petebest is channelling Dr. Seuss?
The king sits in Dumferlin town
Upon a bench of pine,
"O whaur'll I get a new stocking
To clothe this foot o mine?"
I love monkeyfilter.
monkeyfilter
where there's never
any telling
what the next step
will bring
(especially if you
wear those lucky socks)
I've been cold and lonely,
Lean and steamin',
I've been uptown and downtown
And I've used my reasonin'
But I just can't find what I'm lookin' for,
My ol' socks gone.
Well I've looked amid the laundry,
And I've looked beneath the stairs,
And I searched around the junk
That I have thrown away there,
But the truth is clear, for all to see
My ol' socks gone.
My ol' sock's gone, oh-woh
My cold toes on, oh woah-oh
Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah
My ol' sock's gone.
I called upon the psychics,
Who used their skills to find some hose
And I called upon forensics,
With their bloodhounds' nose.
And then I called my mother,
Though I knew it was forlorn,
And it's oh so cold
When your feet aren't warm...
So I've given up tryin'.
They were woolly and they were comfy,
They were green and they were old,
They saw me thru the bad times
And they saw me thru the cold -
But its time that I admitted
They're no longer in the fold,
My ol' socks gone.
My ol' socks gone, woah
My cold feet song, woh-no
Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah,
Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah,
And the sole's worn...
/fade
O woe, the tragic lament of it! O the anguish of a man left sockless!
*weeps for his friend*
Old socks, old socks,
Lie on the courtside like Reeboks
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
and the worn heels of the old socks.
Shall I nevermore be holed?
Hymn to the Missing Sock.
Holey Holey Holey
Green sock Almighty
Oh, the Bees shall praise thy name
And Nostril pine for thee.
I move that the "Missing sock" be added to the seminal country music list:
Heartache, trucks, jail, drinkin', Mom, & missing sock.
and hymns?
What about hymns, Pete?
only "Amazing Grace", although Jesus is certainly allowed.
WWJPMS: Where Would Jesus Put My Sock?
One sock over the line, sweet Jesus, one sock over the line
Sittin' downtown in the haberdashery section, one sock over the line
Waitin' for the socks that go home, sweet Mary
Hoping that those socks are on time
Sittin' downtown in the haberdashery section, one sock over the line
Who do you love, I hope it's my green socks
I've been changing them, as you can plainly see
I felt the joy and I learned about the pain that my mama said loosing a sock could bring,
If I should choose to knit a new pair, the lost one
Would surely strike me dead, and now I'm
One sock over the line.
These socks are pagan.
My socks are little pagans;
since they left me in the lurch,
I know one place I needn't look
for them is in a church.
Well, I'll be darned
A country ballad to a missing sock
You picked a fine time to leave me loose-heeled,
With four broken tarsals and a veruca as w(he)eel
I’ve had some bad socks
Worn thru’ a whole box
Can I sur-vive my barefoot ordeal?
*applauds wildly*
*throws underwear onstage*
*frigs self with hairbrush handle*
Ooh and there's a flag on the play! Looks like GramMa and bees are discussing it . . . we'll be back after this timeout . . .
Y'all have been an audience! As y'know, I'm a little bit country and I'm a little bit rock and roll...
Deep down in Oxfordshire close to River Stour
Way back up in the years around the Civil War
There stood a college building with a roof on top
Where lived a college boy named Abieze R. Coppe
Who not only liked to read and write a book
But he could wash his underclothes just like a-wringing a sock
Go go
Go Abiezer go go go
Go Abiezer go go go
Go Abiezer go go go
Go Abiezer go go go
Go go Abieze R. Coppe
He used to carry all his socks in a laundry sack
Sat beneath the pot plants in a laundromat
A service washer saw him sitting in the shade
Ranting with the rhythm that the driers made
The people passing by, they would stop in shock
Oh my, how that college boy could wring his socks
His mother told him, someday you'll be a heretic
You'll be called a Ranter, you'll surely get some stick
But many people queuing up to wash their smalls
Will find religious inspiration as they fold their towels
And maybe someday you'll get name-tags in your socks
Saying Abieze R. Coppe rocks!
And in this wise self-celebration came to monkeyland.
Sing a song of stockings, pocket full of punch,
Green socks which are missing, did they go out to lunch?
Once the pub was opened, strong men began to cry
Isn't that a lucky sock ye're wearing for a tie?
Ohhhhh, sweeeeeet!
Gotta respect those word meisters.
*boogaloos off, singing
sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me
Fear not, Beeswacky. The college boy is Master Coppe himself, not my pale imitation.
Liked it -- do write more poetry, Abiezer_Coppe.
A day without socks
grey, cold
pour quoi?
O sock
take thy toes from out my heart
evermore.
Tis the season to be holey--
Green old socks,
Green old socks,
Green, old, missing... Heh!
Oh what fun it is to find,
Nostril's green old sock today.
*sung to the tune of that, unh, other song
We hope you find your lucky sock
We hope you find your lucky sock
We hope you find your lucky sock
And find it right - here!
Hail to theee, blithe stocking,
Shoe thou never woz,
That from my house went walking
With all your yarns and fuzz
In unpremeditated journey just becoz.
Praise neither engine
nor caboose,
for once
the brakes are shot
the train
of thought
must run to pot.
Ah, woe is me,
today I sing sorrow,
I will weep
bitter tears
all day tomorrow,
for my sock
is footloose
and fancy-free,
my ingrate sock
has run
away from
me.
Folk shed no tear, but smiled,
for Zeus and Lada's happy sons,
Castor and Pollux, once in a while
disputed socks and even traded 'em --
one by one.
Swiftly, shipmates, blow by blow,
across the seas they both did go,
went hunting for a Golden Fleece
and in their deepest hearts desired
not peace, but golden socks --
and gloves, to keep them warm
in golden glory, safe from harm.
Socks gleaming in the darkest night,
their feet, they thought, would glimmer bright.
Yet they by death were severed, the horseman
Castor died, while Pollux, the boxer, cried.
The yarn of their socks
is still untold, but lucky socks
are never made of heavy gold.
Green is the colour of spring, and therefor hope,
eternal in the human breast; green socks
by Celtic devas equally are blessed.
Green socks are knotted through men's lives,
now up, now down, by cunning fingers they're devised,
and how -- or why -- they come or go, no man can ultimately know.
I count my socks,
I count my toes,
Where lost socks go,
Nobody knows.
I count my bras,
I count my drawers,
When green socks go,
Then Nostril roars.
/bad poetry
Nostril has bras too? Man this thread is getting better all the time . . .
I have bras & g-strings.
But they belong to my hot wife.
His missing sock
is emerald green,
its been weeks
since it was seen.
We look for it here,
we look for it there,
we ask the wombat and the bear
"Have ye seen half of his lucky pair?"
Throx, three socks, in Nosey's drawer
The bras, the g-strings can't be far
One of which is used for luck,
One of which is used t-
**turntalbe stylus scratchingly pulled from groove**
And now for something completely different.
Not this record, not this record, NOT THIS RECOOOOORD!!
(heheh)
I've just had a horrible thought.
Could it be that Nostril doesn't seperate his colored socks from the dark laundry?
Could it be that his green socks are NOT lost, they've merely been transformed into a muddy color brown by being washed with black clothing?
Could it be that this WHOLE THREAD is actually a hoax that Nostril has purposely or inadvertantly imposed upon us?
These questions must be answered!
Nostril, go check your underwear drawer.
suspense music plays
No, no. Not transformed into muddy brown. Colorfast.
And now these messages . . .
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Wot about the Fenlands, petebest?
The home of sodden woolly socks.
Fling in there stockings, stockings,
And never a cast-off shoe;
In drawer now one reposes,
Ah, would that one were two!
One red sock to drive a car
One blue to drive a truck
One white sock would give me hope
One green would give me luck
But NoooOOOoooo!
My sock is like a silent bird
who's nested in a dresser drawer,
my sock is like an apple-tree
whose yarns grow tangled more and more.
My sock is like a maple seed
that flutters down in spiral fall;
my sock is greener than all these
more beryl green than Donegal.
Raise me a loaf with milk and flour,
glaze it with egg and bake it well,
slice it in parts and thrust in candles,
then set them alight to blaze like hell;
sit down, dear friends, and lift a glass,
let voices rise in songs of glee,
because the lost one in my life
is back, my sock is home with me.
Tonight on SMARTLINE: Is Sock Luck better than your average idiot-pulls-one-out-of-his-@$% luck? Our panelists debate!
the green sock
hangs
from a black
bedpost
in the midnight
watch
cold fingers stuff
it
Cotton socks are vile
when seams run across your toes,
after a while they chew holes in you --
and wooly socks, alas, too soon wear through.
Socks of silk against your skin for skiing keep you warm
and a pair inside your woolen socks is fairly standard form.
Nylon stockings wear rather well,
acrylic socks, however, tend to smell.
i bought new socks
I watch them.
Heyheyheyhey HEY! Get back here!
socks, right?
When socks are abandoned
and left all alone,
they don't flirt
let alone mate again.
Unpaired by the drawful --
the spectacle's awful! --
they provide moth fodder
and things far odder,
get made into sock puppets
or used as cleaning rags,
or thumbless gloves,
becoming the butt
of feeble rhymer's gags.
When stockings last in the hamper bloomed
And the great starch early drooped from the collars and cuffs of shirts,
I mourned, and yet shall mourn, ny never-returned lucky sock.
Thsi is too silly not to share; found this on page 242 of The Vampire Encyclopedia, a work previously mentioned here:
Socks Items of clothing that can be used to destroay a vampire or at least drive it away, especially in the traditions of the Gypsies of Eastern Europe. It relies upon the obsessive nature of the vampire towards certain items such as seeds, grains, or its own clothes. Vampire hunters steal the left sock [my bold] from the grave od an offending vampire, fill it with rocks or dirt from the grave, and throw it outside the village boundary, preferably into running water. The undead will awaken, miss his sock, and start searching for it, even enduring water in order to retrieve it. The vampire, of course, drowns when he enters the water.
On the lefthand side of hell's mouth
is the ghost of a yew tree, standing by a pool.
Whatever you do, don't wash your socks in it.
In fact, don't go near it,
don't touch the water, blacker than the ink
kings use to write death warrants.
To A New Year of Socks
a poem to be read with only one sock
by me. *ahem*.
O Sock!
O Sock which hitherto had lain e'er upon the floor
You are no more
for 2004.
For as surely as a wint'ry branch doth snap,
Were my posts to this thread like crap,
Or even to say
As sunny as a giggling stripper (Oi!)
Still tomorrow, still the wanton crush of time
Will our socks be paired? Will our meter be spared?
Will our drunken half-rhyme schemes show we cared?
To Socks!
To 2005!
May we bee amused by the poems they contrive!
Salud!
at this point in the program, you may quaff your beverage and mingle about
I got 3 new pairs of black socks for xmas. Unfortunately, I lost a sock from each of 4 pairs over the last year, so I'm still in the red.
I got 4 pairs of black socks for Christmas.
In other news, look which account still works...
petebest, always delighful plus!
So, do ye have red socks, then, smallish bear?
Goodbye to the year two thosand and four,
we don't need or want ye any more!
Ye sorry thing, to lead our lucky sock astray
so now we're eager for a better day.
Dear sock, come home, and fill us to the brink with glee --
that we this fresh new year may step in merrily.
Welcome to ye, then, two thousand and five --
in you may bees make honey, and men relish being alive
to stride along with both feet clad in lucky socks,
with time to care for one another, and pay less heed to clocks.
Black socks, sullen, point up specks of lint,
White socks, cotton, show the dirt;
Grey socks, alas, are what some children wore
to slide across the polished floor.
Blue socks, sky-blue, are worn by few,
and in the wash soon fade to paler hue;
yellow socks, rarely sold, suit the young and nattily bold.
Red socks when Someone's careless turn the white stuff pink,
so washing these, I'm told, is living on the brink;
green socks are jewels, and when folk put them on
may find they tread as sprightly as a leprechaun.
Everyone's always after me lucky socks!
/freaky_cartoon_leprechaun_thing
One need not be a stocking to be haunted,
One need not spin a yarn;
The path of many footfalls treading
Continues on.
Nor polish, in a midnight moment
That brand-new shoe
With an unmatched stocking rubbing
The heel of you.
Discovered a poem in The Pnguin Book of Nonsense Verse, which underlines yet another reason socks are important. Some excerpts:
The Reluctant Hero, or Barefoot in the Snow
by Margaret Mary
When he put on his socks in the morning
He found they were much too tight.
His feet, without any warning,
Had lengthened over night.
He didn't have any other,
He couldn't pick or choose.
He borrowed a pair of his mother's
And went to put on his shoes.
When he put on his shoes in the morning
He found they were much too tight....
[so he tries other footwear, to no avail, until: --]
And so he went out barefoot,
No socks or shoes he wore.
He trod in places where foot
Had never trod before.
And everywhere his feet sent
A message to the sky.
His footprints down the street meant
A hero's passing by.
= Mahy, not Mary
nice find Mr. Bees!
A sock will keep your foot dry
For a fair amount of time
But you wont even ask why
The sock is so sublime
b/w
Did Genghis Khan wear a sock?
A lucky one to battle?
Would he even give a fsck?
High up in his saddle?
Genghis Khan wore boots of felt
--and how they smelt!
This, the place sock threads begun,
where monkeys lingered to have fun --
we owe it all to Nostrildamus --
whose sock-lorn state is ever famous.
After that beginning, threads took on strange and stranger twists,
so now if ye Search for missing socks,
there's quite an number which can't be missed.
The sock search is on!
No Google! No clicks!
It's under the bed!
It's under the drumsticks!
You heard what bees said,
Now find that sock thread!
Evil socks, you cause me pain,
Chafing my gonads again and again,
Crushing them with your woollen vice
While I wank-off to Anneka Rice
Her bottom round with sweaty crack,
I fap my tadger, whack-whackety-whack.
My ball batter squirts in your fibrous taint,
I got the idea from 'Portnoy's Complaint'
Evil socks, I fucked your mother
If you had a twin, I fucked another.
Death becomes you, its in your veins
Like a black'n'decker bit mincing my brains.
Don't doubt for a minute, don't doubt for a day
I've tried trepanning in my own special way
Once with an ice pick, once with an awl
Buy a rubber chicken from my garage-sale stall.
rubber chicken = +1
*ding!*
And now the question must be this:
Though you had fun,
Why'd your sock run?
Do socks go seeking wooly bliss?
Or do socks even know what fun is?
Did that sock deem things went amiss?
All these and other questions rise
To lead us on in wild surmise.
Glory be to goats for stockinged things! --
To sheep dense-pelted, yarn in rainbow hues;
To cotton-bolls, slick spindled until free of seed,
To silk that's drawn from caterpillar- ravellings --
Linked strands, knotted and pieced, which turning heel does not refuse,
And cuffs, their tucks and garters, timely tackled at need.
Sok, sock, sock,
from the foot in my boot ye flee!
And the bunioned hide from a sock that has fled
Is all that is left to me.
I love to dance a merry jig
I whirl about just so
My one regret, my one upset
Is doing it with a naked toe.
Heyy SOoooooooocckk!
Evil socks, you ate my chook
I know-not for sure, I read the book
And now the film is out in town
I'll eat the pie, it's round & brown.
Evil socks I'll roast your buns
Like undead undies you rise like suns
Up above the world so high,
I squick a mermaid in the eye.
Vagrant foot-clad woollen shift
Without ado you deftly drift
Into my nightmare, whick-click, whick-whack
I'm taking prozac which should fix that.
hee hee!
Heh!
Of sock bereft,
(it was not white),
my left foot's left
(and so's my right) --
Yet Mongol socks are my delight
as hastily I steppe along.
Booooooooo! ;)
Though each dread pun evokes the Boo Obligatory,
Alas, dear pete, I'll never say I'm sorry.
O green sock, stalking through the bush,
where thorn may catch and stone may brush
the lint away and your threads fray,
sock, why not hurry home today?
The dresser drawer contains your mate
who wonders why you stay out late,
so turn around, don't hesitate!
Head for home and not the hills,
and cure our Nostril's woes and ills!
Evil, vile, sock from the pile,
My lilly-white senses you defile
With cheesy toe-jam collecting dust,
Search for my missing green sock I must.
Come buy my fine socks,
A shilling a box,
A half-pair for a penny,
Come, will ye chose any?
See, I've green and I've gold
guaranteed free of mould.
They were knit by a queen,
not a knitting-machine,
and are fit for the feet
of the finest and proudest
and sold by a hawker
who shouts long and loudest.
Socks may have to swallow holes,
they're stepped on all the time;
what joy in such existence?
Are socks just knit to toe a line?
Feet use them and abuse them,
perhaps socks are outbluffed,
no wonder when they scoot away --
we all know that they're cuffed.
But Stink Foot, as it never will be removed,
Though insoles court it in a scent of heaven,
So luck, though to a woollen hose is link’d,
Will warm itself in a celestial sock
And prey on toe jam.
~ William Shakeboot, Gamlet
Enter Gambol (a clown): Imagination is not fettered,
though foul foot-foetors rise
to give Young Uncle Nostril
an unsavory surprise.
Whimlet (aside): See where Prince Nostril on the parapet
doth drop his sullied stockings, fouled foot-ware,
in sudsy water swoop and swirl the pair
the while he chugs a dainty Danish beer?
Wallop (a courtier and toady): But, Highness, pray ye ponder well the worth
you might attain in some post-mortal yonder
if you ne'er wash a swan-white foot again,
nor murd'rous swoosh the sock-pent atomies of stench
down castle drain and into yon clogged trench.
Aha! Danish beer. Bloody good idea. Off to the booze shop I go.
*stands, applauds*
Bravo! Bravo!
*cue bongos & solo sax*
Lucky . Ssssssssssssssssssock
You laid upon the floor - DEAD!
And now (yeah)
Holy and hole-y you shall be ALL-iiiiiiiiivvee
Survive lucky sock
You have risen
Risen! And gone away
Gone away like so much detritus, the piffle, LAMBASTED by others - CAST to the GROUND! You leave . . .
*puffs cigarette*
Pour quoi, mon sock? Are we not all woven? Are you GREEN with . . . human envy? Desire to trod upon other's feet? *bongo fill*
To sock it to another . . . sock?
/snaps fingers
yeah man
I have an urge to buy a beret and smoke clove cigarettes.
Whimlet: The noo Prince Nostril leaves his parapet
to swallow yet, and now, another brew.
His bendy fingers clasp with skill the glass
as he begins to riff and sips anew.
Skoal, sweet prince!
That's a grand portrait of you with your good Hollands; 'twill make a delightful addition to the Monkey Gallery on the wall beside my 'puter.
Ah, Bees, thou art a gentleman & wordsmith of such superlative nature to swoon & beggar a 32 ft Japanese monster's rampage. The bendy fingers are result of many years of noodling the strings of various stringed instruments. The bent nose be the result of one single insult amidsts a rugby scrum sometime within the decade of Thatcher's Briton when young Nostril dared rude physical activity upon the muddy field. A great pate did impact young Nosty's smelling orifice resulting in asymmetrical bending of the smelling-tube. How ironic!
Ow-wow-ow!
*claps both hands to nose, adding a fourth element to conventilonal see-no-evil-etc monkey-tableaux*
Smash not this noble nose
with which I smell the rose
or -- now I think of it --
my stockinged toes.
Nice mug Nosey - I think you should be the fifth element to the conventional - *drink* no evil. Of course since beer is divine, that would only leave out Budweiser.
all American gentlemen who wish to dispute, please stand slightly to the right.
Than-kEW!
*THUNK*
Now let us put the thing plainly --
Nostril's sock has gone down the drain, he
said his sock slipped away
with the suds to the bay --
so now when he walks he's ungainly.
The question which now lies before us
as folk frequently ask all in chorus,
"If one foot stays bare
when ye walk anywhere
is it time for a wee doch an' doris?"
C'mon everybody do the Nostril Hop
It's how you do it
When you've got one sock
It's how you do it
When you're on the scene
It's how you do it
When your sock is green
Go Daddy!
*piano solo*
Let us to town! we shall replace
those holey socks no man can mend,
so when our feet step out the door
no longer will our kin implore
us to refrain, and purchase more
before upon the road we wend.
"Bring out your thread!" is that's heard
when wandering lonely through the third
great world about the gnarled and knotty trunk
of Ygsdrasil, hunting socks that smell like skunk.
"Come, Socks, I'd coax you out of hiding,
with a word or two, ill-timed and un-
abiding. You can tell by my demeanor I am one
who thinks that cuffs are very likely cleaner
than your heel and toe. Whether by light of moon or sun,
return ye home, and if you need some guiding
I'll be there to help you, every well-darned one."
Of good luck
none can tell the worth,
but the luck of the lucky
runs steady
as incoming surf.
The man whose
lost a lucky sock
will stand and gawk
at first,
then cry he is a man accursed
and tear his hair
until he's wilder looking than King Lear.
The light of the moon is a glorious thing
except when you're reading or sewing.
for the light of the moon can disguise everything
so socks do not know if they're coming or going.
For this reason by moonkight it's not recommended
that folk sit down with their socks to be mended,
but instead go out walking, and hunt for the stocking
which vanished away, and nevermore was seen by light of day.
When a lucky sock is gone, all peace
is overset --
Over hill and stream and rocky grot
I sought,
Wore holes through my shoes thus hunting
the missing
Inquired of strangers if they'd seen a sock
that's green,
Pondered my chance of a new one
purchasing,
Couldn't knit a new one since I've not
been taught.
So I walked for years in the woods in the wild.
Til finally
Eventually
I forgot.
Beeswacky: 117 - MonkeyFilter: 5
White Chocolate Wangs!
Oh god, wrong thread. First time I've done that, now I'll never be able to live down the title of N00b. Please forgive me!!!!
Wang-ker! :)
These socks, he said,
Grasps them in gnarled hands,
A story they do tell, though you know of none.
These socks, he said, did bind the feet
Of Finn the King, the mighty one,
And with the warmth embued between
Such toes that never man hath seen
He leap'd upon the earth beyond the ken
Of mortal men.
He fell back faint, his spine against the wall
His head inclined near hearth and so I thought would fall,
But greyhead leant again to me, blue eyes spark'd so bright
These socks, he says, are not just base foot-worn a' slight,
But the very secret of the Irish might,
The very hidden magic skein to bind a hidden king
With them, but those who know-not, scarce!
He sank again within the hearth,
His bowed-back grey-head bent beneath
But I remember still.
And for his memory, wear green socks until
The end of time unwinds.
And even though green sock means little,
I wait until the tale will settle,
And there amid the words, am I,
Green-socked, small, dancing, by and by.
*standing ovation*
Whoa! Nostril! The history of green, Irish socks takes on a more emotional tone. I apologize that I originally thought it all trivial!
)))!!!
Excellent work, mate!
Uh, what? I was pissed out me 'ead when I wrote that & din't even think about it. Bloody load of old crap, if you ask me. You lot are crazy.
;)
Nice Nosey! I declare the orcs defeated and your party finds an enchanted pint, offering immediate shitfacededness when necessary.
Once upon a midnight bleary, when I with suds was growing beery,
From unzipping many a can, then sipping, sopping up still more,
While I guzzled, all unmuzzled, suddenly a slipping, tipping --
No! it were a gentle dripping, drip by drop like water dropping, slopping on my entry floor.
" 'Tis some stocking," I exclaimed, "dripping on my entry floor,
Merely one, a sock I wore."
Quoth the Nostril: "Burp and snore."
Take thy pint from out my face,
And take thy sock from off my floor!
12 little geminis dancing in a row,
11 little cancers, now they're hidden but they grow
10 little capricorns, wearing clean white linen,
9 little aries working hard at wheels a-spinning
8 little tauruses, breaking china plates,
7 little leos barking orders while they wait
6 sagittarians, eating what they see,
5 little virgos doff their caps & make a plea
4 little libras practice balance on their beds,
3 cool aquarians pour the water on their heads
2 little scorpios, their tails a-poised to sting,
1 little pisces lost his socks so here he sing:
All the little zodiacal emblems balanced fine
But none can fix the socks that someone went and left behind.
That was great! Okay let's do it again and this time - really emote! I wanna see those leos!
Action!
But, but, but ....Nostril!
Geminis are twins, so 12 little Geminis would be twenty-four, right? Unless you mean 12 all together, so that would be six?
I'm so confused.
moments of absorption/obsession with socks
when I inscribe their names on a list
when I think about paying for them
when I pay for them
when I clasp their parceled delights to my chest
when I carry them off to my abode
when I tear their wrappings off
when I remove their labels and tags
when I discard the nuisance wrap, label, tags
when I feel their tactile quality
when I place them in a drawer
when I remove them first from the drawer
when I pull them on
when I test for toe-wiggling and general comfort
when I step out in them for the first time
when I take them off for the first time
when I toss them in the laundry hamper
when I carry the hamper downstairs
when I watch them get placed into the washer
when I wave and say bon voyage to them
when I wonder if I'll ever see them together again
when my dear ones lead me away, weeping, from the laundry room
when I blot my eyes for weeping over the transitory quality of paired sock existence
when I hear anguished shrieks from the nether portion of the house where the basement and the laundry room are
when I dash wildly down three flight of stairs, narrowly avoiding breaking my neck in the process
when one I love wrings faltering hands and says apologetically Your Sock Is Gone
when I say No! not my NEW sock! not my LOVELY new sock!
when I see the answering nod
when I abandodn hope
when I refuse to the outrage of Fate
when I seize the washing machine and dismantle its hose
when I peer futilely into the empty hose
when I fish down the drain with a plumber's snake
when they come to revive me with apple pie and coax me upstairs to have a bite
when they lie to me and tell me you'll get over it
when I contemplate my eventually approaching birthday and think of all the damn pairs of socks I will inevitably be given instead of books
when I lay here and groan aloud
when I write this lament
=when I refuse to bow to the outrage etc
Pox!
Ah, fercryinoutloud!
Just buy three pair the same style and color you people. Life is to short to agonize over losing your socks.
Pants are a different thing altogether, right Pete?
(oh, yea, nice poem, Bees)
"Life is to short to agonize over losing your socks."
No it isn't. If all I have to agonise over are missing socks, I consider it a *good thing*.
/casts disparaging look around the planet
Mice like to nest in cast-off socks
which they chew into wooly ravelings,
and pilgtims always watch their steps as they walk
hoping to find a stray sock in their travelings;
and so, with heavy heart and feet I homeward stride
hoping to find my wayward sock is safely back inside.
too short
TOO short
dang, it must be the fault of this preview thingie
Mice in socks? That's nothing, that.
Insert the foot, and find a rat!
Then take a stick, or take a bat.
And mash that critter till he's flat.
when I blot my eyes for weeping over the transitory quality of paired sock existence
.
Fuckity shit bag, black cuntible socks,
Wankety arse tit, pissing pink cocks,
The pros in the whore house, counting their pricks,
The tricks in the garden, eating a twix,
Each of them all lost a sock up their arse,
I can write poems, but not with much class.
Hehe good one GramMa!
Although it's true
That rats have rights
They don't have socks
Which causes fights
I too suspect I write with no class,
(unless it's on a kindergarten level),
for poetry is difficult
and to write it well is tricky as the devil.
The important thing about writing is to write,
and all the better if ye write from the heart,
but I think it's useless to worry overmuch
about whether or not what ye write is 'art'.
Quotes are for Wolof.
The Joy of Socks
via j-walk blog
Now we just need a 'Bashi store.
I don't mind wearing socks with clocks
that don't need winding,
socks striped or with polka dots
are true delight I'm finding;
socks worn with gaiters or Argyled
are garments in the height of regimental style,
but socks that disappear are the pits,
and I miss them most if they are socks that fit.
I have a friend with one big leg
He wears a one big sock
He stretches them on doorknobs see
You can't buy mismatched socks a lot
I know for sure a what he's wishin'
For he'd be lost if that big sock went missin'
So he keeps it in the same damn spot.
if heart should fix unduly
on missing socks,
to lose one then
is merely quasi-tragic,
unlike the pain
of severance from
a vanished life
that brought us love
with all its
whelming magic
They lost their way
She lost her dream
He lost his mind
You lost your socks
It's hard to comprehend
Which is the greater tragedy
)))!!! Go, go, go, ever beautiful BlueHorse!
Only a single sock
hangs dripping
on the tiles.
Only a single sock
for one foot.
Only one foot
bare and flinching
on the cold floor.
Only one thought --
find the other sock!
Only one sock --
for company
on a long road.
Only one sock
to save me from
sandal-chafing.
Luckiest of socks, the green one there
Is strung with lint and pilled with collie hair,
And now lies limp, a singlet in dresser drawer,
Rather than half the pair it was before.
Now, of my threescore years and two
none of which will come again, (and this is true),
At most I have but forty more
To examine every other dresser drawer.
And since to peer at socks in drawers
Can fill a mortal man with horrors,
About the household I will flit
Looking for a better fit.
I measured everything in lucky sock-lengths:
the length of the carport and the collie's pen,
a new slat for the old bedframe,
my hatbrim, the collars for the dogs,
the span of my waist and the length of my foot
(some three fifths of my sock) -- and all
was going very well until Someone washed my woolly measure,
and now all's skewed, my efforts at precision with great painstaking pain
were made in vain.
hear the hunger-song of the wicked wee moth
O I could eat the wide world
were it knit-and-perled!
that dreamt of devouring some lucky green cloth.
Wild and wooly socks,
out in the misty morn.
Perled with dew and glistening,
their toes quite rent and torn.
These holy socks, we pray,
shall never more go roam.
But knowing Nostril's history,
they won't be going home.
O beauty, BlueHorse!
The woolly Sock men set their Hearts upon
Turns to Dust -- moth's Fodder -- and is done,
Melting like Sherbet on a heated Plate,
And blighting every Hope that had begun.
And those who husbanded the Knitted Fleece,
And those whose Rambling brings them no Release,
Alike by no such Emerald Coils are charm'd --
Forsocking them, Luck won't repeat again.
so bees, did everything come out in feet?
heh. metric.
Oh, darn!
I've lost my socks again.
I feel like such a heel.
I feel
unraveled, so undone.
It's totally surreal.
I'll look
again toe-morrow,
in corners and dark nooks.
Those socks
will march in step again
or be impaled on hooks.
I've got to stop staying up till 2 ayem.
)))!!!
beauty GramMa. What happens at 3am? ;)
The Stocking
The wretched yarns below him trip,
he stumbles on the stones and slips,
a tattered rag, who only rips.
He treads the road with failing threads,
Nor water and nor fire dreads,
Fringed by the rough, hard world, sole shreds.
My sockless foot still walks the road,
It is much chafed by shoes;
In spite of which I bear my load
While treading dust or ooze.
The sock I own's a single one,
A faded shade of green,
I can't think where I've left its mate
In all this rural scene.
And so I seize on passers-by,
I catch them by their ears,
"I've been looking for my MY SOCK!" I yell,
and then burst into tears.
"Long years have passed, my sock has fled,
and left me here alone!"
They stare at me and start to shake
before they dash for home.
Area Man Keeps Talking About His Sock
film at 11
Yes, I am haunted by the sock that simply left,
I spent hours hunting for it yesterday
without consideration it simply went its woolly way
leaving me with one arm foot warm and one of heat bereft.
I've put signs up with some photos and offered a reward
and I've been through all the neighbourhood putting signs upon the doors,
as well as the telephone poles up and down the eastern seaboard,
and through the Great Lakes and the prairies to Vancouver's shores.
Don't know what that arm is doing in the third line of the first stanza. Was someone giving me a hand, or wot?
Now I dream of songbirds chirping in the trees,
I plan the garden, and will soon set out the peas,
And next I think the cabbage and the chard
Between the flowerbeds in our back yard.
Yet how I dread to see those green sprouts rise,
To flaunt their emerald hues before my eyes.
My sock has not returned, and I am woe
With hunting for the darned thing high and low.
And a another big hand for our Bees!
These socks, they are all homely things,
but ye will find they're worn by kings;
though we'll assume that kings don't wail
if they loose a sock, so a pair does fail.
But homely folk like yourself or me
who need to keep track of each penny
can hoot and carry on for years,
if we chance to lose something we wears.
is it me, or are a few recent comments missing? Er, along with the sock . . .
Shouldn't be...
pete, try the where are my socks thread, #4405.
Well tap my lectern and call me Rufus - my comment was over there, thanks!
Comment: 1
Socks: 0
we now return you to your regularly scheduled sock-themed poetry bonanza, already in progress.
*theme music*
I darn the wool slowly
and mend my sock holey,
so I may journey
day by day
in search of the one
that got away.
At night I dream
of emerald yarn
fit to clothe the feet
of Genghis Khan
and of many a hero
who's long gone,
which gives me strength
to travel on.
At night, as I have found my bed
I dream of socks and poetry
Too good for one, we have two threads
For bees to frolic wackily
O for a closetful of the warm, the wooly emerald green!
Instead I have just one, for the other's not been seen.
And what is the use of only one sock? If you wear it anywhere
and wear it with another sock from yet another pair
ye had better carry the business off with an air of aplomb.
Or look pretty dumb.
Here's a bet you just can't lose
mismatched socks, meet mismatched shoes!
O where is my wandering sock tonight?
My sock could have gone anywhere
(Its mate now is my sole delight)
The wanderer's the cause of my torn-out hair
Where is my sock tonight?
Who wears my sock tonight?
My foot is half-froze
From my heel to my toes,
O where is my sock tonight?
I am most ashamed to say
Two socks I've lost today;
I thought myself immune
To this frightful curse,
And never thought so soon
To suffer it the worse.
'tis not a pair I lack,
For I had four before.
Two grey, the others black,
Now they're neither nor.
a knitted ) for Alnedra!
Help! The sock-plague is spreading!!!
Bring out your threads!
oooo *ssssst* Okay bees, I'll allow it - but watch yourself Sonny Jim!
hehe
comfort of green wool
sliding over metatarsals --
chilblains are banished
A warm sock
in the sack
is worth two
on the foot
My darling has big feet
And tho i love her dearly
Under covers of the darkness
I swear she puts 'em on me
With sleepy sighs
I close my eyes -
But Laird I wish she'd stop
I'll rue the day
I threw away
that one green tattered sock.
O excellent, pete!
Injured my shoulder a few years ago, and someone gave me a ... well, it's like a small sack stuffed with rice, which ye can put briefly in the microwave to heat up, then use to warm your feet or whatever. Maybe ye can find one for her.
Don't let the terrier play with it. My collie chewed a corner off mine when she was a pup -- rice all over!
Socks of grey?
Throw 'em away!
Socks of yellow?
Out the window!
Socks of white
bring no delight,
and socks of blue
are dismal, too!
Give me socks of red
only when I'm dead.
Let socks of lucky
brilliant green
be the only socks
in which I'm seen!
T'was Valentine's when m'lady said:
"You nincompoop! Get out of bed!"
I felt a whiff
a rap
a kick!
When I recalled
that she was sick!
All huffs and wheezes
all sniffs and snorts
My poor dear lass
was out of sorts
And all because
I did forget -
On rainy days
Her foot gets wet!
So bless me mama!
For I have sinned
I didn't find
that sock again.
))), pete!!!
one cold day
this
old chimney lit
and damper
open
in a dim room
grown further
thick
with smoke
then
down
into the fire
kindled
fell the bees
dazed
from darkfall
into
bright-tongued
death
while
from hidden comb
choking the flue
sputtering wax
dropped
and sweetness
spilled
on snapping
branches
that last spring
wore pollen
a fitting return, sir bees and well done!
I ask the lion if he's seen
a woolly tube-like thing, its colour green
and lion answers with a roar
'Go seek another at a human store!'
then I ask the eland and gazelle
but it seems that hooved beasts can't tell
a sock from a shoe or a hat or a gnu
as they go skipping across the veldt
on toes that are in keratin shelled
my sock is lost! my sock is gone! I cry
but they just flick their ears and pass me by
I sought among the constellations
that last refuge of bears with long tails
and gorgon's heads and scraps of myths and legends
from many vanished folks and nations
my sock is lost, have ye seen it? was the burden of my song
it's green and woolly and about this long
but stars are singularly unobservent, it seems
and absorbed in their attempts to simply gleam
I got no satisfaction from them, nor the sun,
and so came back to search where I'd begun
My Heart Be Wholed Though I Bee Mad
I blot my eyes and blow my nose
to gaze, enraptured -- at my toes!
Into a pot of emerald paint
I've stepped -- though wearing socks I ain't! --
I toss my bonnet into the air
for now I'll bee-hum most debonair
and blithely prance with feet bright green
in the silliest dance ye've ever seen!
Into wild song I joyfull burst
the best I've sung and yet the worst
though all that's in my heart I lock
to celebrate -- my socks so mock!
Lo! the mad glad dancing of the bees
who's splashed green paint up to his knees
and like one loon-struck laughs and sings
and essays a score of Highland flings!
O I tell ye I am mad with glee --
and a bee must dance -- in poetry!
Old pond:
sock slip-off
no-sound.
In Which An Absence of Footware Is Noted
Ye evening bats that lurch zigzag,
in what at first seems drunken flight,
in search of moth and insect phototroping
toward a streetlamp's brilliant light,
I pity you, not only for your ichorsome diet, but because
your hinder limbs must end in furless chilly paws!
Poor bats! Ye wear no socks to warm your naked toes,
and this sad fate, I must surmise, is doubtless
due to lack of extra-tiny hose
sized to the feet of active mice,
chameleons, voles, and ginkos
(though these last three don't often cross
in staggered flights the sunless skies).
Soon to the starry midnight vault
of heaven I deem I must transalt*
to ask the gods how did this happen?
and is this some god's fault?
and who, if so, must have been napping?
*Ach, don't blame me -- blame Abiezer_Coppe, coiner of/stumbler upon this word!
i can never compare to the great bees, but i wanna poetise too!
there's a sock
just one
that you left by the bed
you dropped it
maybe
when you took your clothes
and
you'll not come back to get it.
i've not written poetry since uni, so be nice!
Hurray! the poem-barrier is breached by prismatic7!
O joy, o rapture
for lo! an errant sock his captured!
So while you're standing on the scene
please tell us
is the darned thing GREEN?
I like it! I am not fierce -- mostly. And then I probably bumble it. Please believe I am always delighted to welcome a fellow practitioner of the High and Ancient Art of Poesy! The sky's the limit! No, make that the uni-verse is our oyster! w00t!
*sigh*
... an entirely superfluous h manifested -- pox on the thing!
the lone sock is black -
a winter night left heartsore
by a love leaving.
no, really, it was... not normaly so melancholy but i'm at work on a beautiful day! curse!
Ye know, in the old days, superstitious folk would recommend a person encountering misfortune take off a garment and then put it back on inside-out in order to turn their luck.
Can't say if this works, though, for in this day and age some of the magic may have leaked out of older things. Unless your garment happens to be green, in which case it may be endowed with strong magic to endure and to spring back to life, even as the grass in spring and the weeds in my garden.
what a fine haiku
this lover's disappearance
summoned up in you!
In more serious vein: Commiserations. And I hope things soon improve for you.
my socks today are white
white socks
black shoes
recipe for disaster, mostly -
but i know i look good.
always!
In this Year of the Green Cock
I put on one emerald sock --
but in spite of all I say or do,
the mate to it stays missing, too.
That missing sock, so long unseen
was knit by leprechauns, I ween,
by mortal man no telling when
its charms so dear return again.
O emerald sock, so long away,
I speculate on where you stray
and dream your yarns spin high and grand
throughout some elfin nether land.
When you come back to middle earth
green cocks will crow and flowers spring,
and bees will dance for all they're worth,
while sun and moon beam welcoming.
A recent day as I hovered o'er
The simple wood of my sock drawer
I found that I was low
A lack of socks, not just my one
A trip to Sockland was begun
6 for $6 don't you know
I am pleased with my purchase
I like supporting the tube sock merchants
But now I am stumped
My knee-high socks they do annoy
I look like wee Lord Fauntleroy
Or other silly chump.
Sir Bees, how are you on the notion of an open-subject FPP for poetry? That is, not one dedicated soley to socks or sloths, tho they be rightly so dedicated. But rather, one just for all attempts - be they hack or graceful waxing - of verse?
As a connoisseur of the poetry of my fellow monkeys, I must vigorously support petebest's suggestion. Of course, I'll expect continued submissions of verse regarding all things socky as well.
I wish I had an iota of talent or knowledge when it comes to verse, so that I could play with you. But sadly, I know nearly nothing about it. Perhaps I'll have to change that.
mct, if a person starts writing poems, and keeps at it, s/he will progress, but unless folk start at it, they never will.
Just as very very few are born knowing how to speak -- poetry's a form of expression ye learn by aborption (reading and listening) and then writing/reciting -- writing poetry is a gradual process, as what one continues focusing attention on becomes increasingly do-able, very like playing the piano or driving a car in that respect.
pete, I am all for FPPs on poetry per se.
But not in favour of all poetry going into one single FPP, because I find I write here often in reaction/response to a particular comment in a particular thread. Taken out of context much of what I do I suspect would be meaningless. Think it would inhibit my writing, anyhow.
Context is all. Meaning per se is relative, and things are what folk make of 'em.
Understood cap'n. I'll try to word it appropriately. I hope a sidebar poetry link will encourage, ne c'est pas? Of course as MonkeyLaureate (tm) you do have veto powers. MCT, on the other hand, has to do 20 push-ups.
Being loopy, to bee a PoetLariat suits me.
Psst, petebest, make sure ye put some links in it, so it's like a real post.
Oh, most are black, but some are blue,
one pair is green as Chinese peas;
they generally stay inside a shoe
(we travel with a pair of these)
or else repose inside my knapsack
until the happy day we venture back
from lands across unstable seas.
All my stockings have crossed the wide oceans.
No, they never get seasick with the ocean's motion;
they're stumbled on the sands of exotic nations
and brought me correctly to all my destinations.
Yet one of the green socks wearied of this,
and set off to find some new foreign bliss,
and to this day I don't know where it is --
so I must coax grandmother into knitting another.
A foot covering is a hell of a thing
An item - a purchase
A meme-thread doth serve us
A sock! The grave as a clock!
It's green, the sheen of poetry giv'n!
links, check! thread to the launch pad in 5 . . .4 . . .3 . .
The seagulls screech up in the sky
but socks are silent when they fly;
their ways are strange
their tracks unknown,
sometimes one strikes out
on its own.
Men wonder
but they do not know
which of their socks
is next to go.
In all my travels round the world
no garment warms this little girl
like socks in all their cotton glory
you hear the truth within my story
they help me to forget my woes
and hug most kindly all my toes
so to my socks I will declare
undying love a bond most queer
but I am not alone in this
just look up above and read this list
Hurray and ))) for hihikomori!!!
*blush* Thank you, beeswacky!
You earned it, hikikomori.
Ah, these socks,
they ensnarl us all
with their intimnate yarns
and their runaway ways.
Now it must be that all these
Enduring young socks
Which I stare at
In wonder this morn
Won't be changed by tomorrow
They won't seem careworn
Since they'll suffer no harm
As they weather each storm.
Their threads will never be unspun,
So they'll end day as they began.
Woolly sock, who knit thee?
Dost thou know who knit thee?
Who reinforced thy heel and toe
With neat green stitches in a row?
Sock, I see ye have come a long journey.
Whichever way brought ye in, from the south road
or from the east, ye're always welcome to this house.
Come to the hearth, and take the chill off.
Whether ye will have a glass of wine or whisky?
Here is honey and a loaf of bread,
and a dish of nuts out of their shells --
I have never tasted sweeter nor tenderer.
Will ye have a spoonful of this sweetmeat? [= pudding]
Whether ye would have apple or grapes with the cheese?
Try now a glass of this old port
which has been straining at its cork
waiting for the day ye'ld join the feast.
They flee from me that sometime did me sock ...
In snowy ancient days, as I suppose,
the well-off stuck their feet in hose,
while all the rest in winter froze
or wrapped some rags about their toes.
Now, crasser folk would try to blame us
coz they they think our stockings heinous,
made of wool, and emerald green -- to boot --
and wondrous lucky, too, without dispute.
But Fate, or Fortune, seems to lure away
one half of each pair that glads our day,
and it's true, the stockings we've not got
are the very same ones that run a lot.
a sock, a single one,
in the midst of the highway
waits and waits
for a foolish passerby
to write
about its
solitary plight
Wile traveling about
I saw a sock without owner
"A loner" says I
A wandering kindred soul
I with sock well-met
Adopted it as my pet, solely
'Cause only the lonely know
The ways of the lost sock
wrinkled green stocking
gone away without farewell --
my luck has left me
Here is an ancient foreigner
who sigheth one-two-three,
with one foot well clad, the other bare,
he is a fright to see.
Tomorrow there will be a service held to honor the memory of Nostril's green sock. Anyone not wearing green socks or undies will be excluded.
Young Uncle lay on Footling Bank
and wow! but he was flying high!
and there he saw a fairy lass
knitting like mad as she rode by.
Her yarn was of the staple wool,
more green than grass or April's moss,
at every toss of her horse's head
she whispered to it, "I'm the boss."
Young Uncle, he leaped onto his feet
and louted low upon his knee,
saying, "Lady, ye've knit an emerald sock
and it's casting a glamour over me*."
/nominated for silliest come-hither line Evah!
Gramma, thats a strict dress code. Fortunately you didn't specify which article goes where.
A sock not taught to live the lovely life of laundry
May go wand'ring
And miss the roiling tumble of bubbles in the wash.
But a wand'ring sock may tenaciously trek these territories
And find love
With the sock of yet another's other wand'ring wash.
Poor laundered sock! Though thou hast surely strayed,
I'll take needle in hand, I'll mend what is frayed
Then you'll march with your mate in the grand parade.
Sudsy and dripping, the sight will be gripping,
As you squelch along, quite damp, but undismayed.
*bows to the mastah, bees-san*
Upside to sock ownership:
They don't need to be fed special diets.
They don't scratch, whine, bark to be let outside.
They don't attack the letter-carrier.
They don't -- often -- get into the neighbour's garbage.
They don't growl. Much.
They don't hog my favorite armchair.
They don't leave spicules of bone in my bed.
/loves his socks
Of socks and the man I sing (or shortly shall)
who first flitted from too-trodden shores that pall,
and damply dismal northern climes, to land in non-Scots Perth
and there did set one sockless foot (though let me postulare a welcome boot)
upon the baking sizzle of the Aussie earth.
My cat likes to eat sock lint off the floor.
That is all.
yes I've seen
cats stare
at strange small things
like nailholes
in a plaster wall
or twist ties
when they tire of staring
cats may pounce
or try to swat the whatsit
with a paw
unlike frogs
who make sudden
angle brackets
with their hind legs
long after you forget
the frog is there
and startle you
(or at least me)
today the frogs
call from the pond
from the woods
ready to plunge
me into spring
one more time
with their angled legs
their can't-quit grins
Him name is Hopkin Grin Frog.
I woz
kept up
all night
because
my socks are
LOUD!
now, sir, I am writing
to cancel my subscription
to your Sock of the Month Club
they come by one and then by one again
and never two by companionable two
and it's growing more than I can bear
to deal with just half of another pair
That damn Quotes cat just shredded one of my favorite pairs of socks with little stars and moons on them. Grrrr
Bees, does this call for a sad poem?
It's perfectly appalling!
The stars and the moon have fallen!
The Quotes-Cat sharpened a tiny claw
to overthrow celestial law!
by the turning shaft
is another of sunlight
in the old mill the dusty moths
wait for dinner wait for men
wearing warm wool socks
to come stamping in
the morhs fall like flakes of bran
to settle in the place where the men sit down
talking over the steady rumble and the groan
of the great wheel while moths do what moths do
so that when I sit tomight on the edge of my bed
to peel my socks off all I find is a scrap or two
of emerald wool inside an empty floured shoe
I know I talked big about a Poetry FPP, but I've come to the realization that it fits perfectly in any FPP. Especially these ones here at the beginning. Although I don't particularly favor a "bananaguard" poem.
A true story ...
Spring is born from winter most bittersweet
A cold fact that I reluctantly did meet
As I walked to my bus this morning head-down
As usual, to spot trap or treasure on the ground
I noted, as I had in days past,
The deep snow, retreating from the edges fast
An unwilling confessor, it could no longer contain
The grisly evidence of a murderer's domain
Helpless and in shame
It drew back the cover from the corpse concealed
For so many months, and now to my horror revealed
A single black sock, I stared on in shock,
At this sodden, half-frozen lost soul
The misplaced and forgotten half of a whole
Half of my grief lay here and the other
At the back of the drawer, with his forsaken brother.
)))
Hey, Koko -- )))for a fine one!!!
Thanks, pete n' bees!
Everything here
is weird,
and smells
like cheeses,
espexially the
green sock
sticking out
of the
pile of
neatly folded
black socks.
And the
white fishbone
sticking out
of it.
And the
cats off
to one
side, yowling
and yudeling
cat wise.
MonkeyFilter
by a dab toep
Daisy Mae
and
green socks
poetry
and
painted rocks
fuzzy kittens
and
flinging poo
fupping ducks
and
cockpunch, too
Cockbong
Will not linger long
In this thread with a poem long
For of black socks I have no song.
sparks fly as I watch you
catch yourself, correcting
at the last possible instant
after you lurch
sideways through the air
with your tentflap wings
matching
the red rush
threading my lungs
hurling my heart
till it almost
bursts
'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour!
My woollen stockings would not stay:
I never wore a shirt or waistcoat
Half so apt from me to stray.
I never cursed a dear green sock
But I was fed a pomegranate;
I never learned to simply talk,
Whene'er I speak I start with "Dammit!"
I wandered from room to room
Sockless doom haunted me
Where could my pile of clean socks be?
Alack alay, they were not lost
That handsome woman put them in the wash.
Oh well I guess it won't hurt
To wear socks that have a bit of dirt.
Signed,
Sockless in Piscadaway
I choose mountains
with rock-rooted trees
I choose black tea
with a dollop of cream
I choose lake water
with incoming geese
I choose lucky socks
of emerald green
The Snake and Worm I often ponder,
how do they get from here to yonder?
It seems to me it's rather neat
to cross the ground when ye've got no feet.
And if ye have no feet at all
why, wearing socks is difficult.
Oh, some grow steaduly and slow,
as a green worm stretches,
and some grow in great spurts
from tiny wretches
and have to split their shells or cast their skin
before we see a Butterfly begin.
In business no more
For I have learned
You can't get rich
Selling socks to worms
Cats too, it seems
Have no cause
To put fuzzy socks
Over thier furry paws
It seemed as if
I'd be out of luck
Were it not
For my friend the duck
Yes, ducks you see
Have taken a liking
To wearing wild socks
It's really quite striking
To see a duck
Parade about
In one sock (or two)
You'll laugh and shout
So here's to duck socks
Be they green or black
Our animal friends
Waddle waddle, quack quack.
Because I have to walk for blocks
With quacks, and moans, and even squawks,
I'd like to have some ducky socks,
Green ones, for a duck that talks writes bad poetry
))) for !!!
blueHorse, these moaning ducks are worrisome. maybe ye should feed them some bananas, too?
At every step I take I hear a groan,
and looking down I see
one stocking's left me, one alone --
for second shoe and stocking, both are gone!
Yes, ocean twinkles merry blue;
but beach is wide whereon I stride;
the sand hath seized my right hand shoe
and snatched away my right sock, too
And from the stocking which is left
I hear a grain from sock bereft.
"O moaning sock beside the sea
we'll walk back, tracking carefully."
I tried my best to reassure
but woolly grief cannot be cured
bees can't spell
nor can he tell
grains from groans
this side of hell
he leaves behind
a fearful mess
yet the poor fool
dreams of sock-cess
/me grains at the punny verse
Sock of the morning, beautiful sock,
daylong companion wherever I walk --
what swkward step or sudden turn
took you from me, I cannot learn.
alas, so awkward,
this groping for a sock word!
mountain of socks
deep in a closet
buried the shoes
and the silken cravats
summit of stockings
some day we shall climb it
someday we shall wash it
and that will be that
o knitted yarns, lumpy hose,
green above groves in leaf
how long will you cling to
the foot-smells of the foolish?
dear sock, snuggler of my toes
your leaving brings me grief
formost among grasses, ferns, mosses
your green I cherish
a haughty sock
wound through
the rest and
looped them closely
to its breast
a tangled knot
of giant size
to horrify our
awe-struck eyes
A giant sock
If placed correctly
Would cover the Empire State Building
Keeping the occupants
Snug and dry.
Socks are extremely inspirational it seems.
I can't seem to access the search function to find the poetry thread because it keeps running down the page and won't let me click it--weird. Has this happened to anyone else lately?
Anyway, this poem is for the Bees:
Orchid
Now that you are gone, you are everywhere.
Take this orchid, for instance,
its swollen lip, the scrawny stalk's one
descended testicle
as wrinkled as rhetoric on the bar-scene stump,
the golden years since
jingling in its purse. How else signal the bee?
In my swan-clip now languish urgent appeals
from the usual charities
lined up to be ignored. But your flags are up:
I see the flapping petals,
the whorl of sepals, their grinning come-on.
Always game, again
I'd head straight for the column's sweet trap.
Ducking under the puckered anther cap
to glide towards the stiff,
waxy sense of things, where male and female
hardly matter to one's heady
urge to pull back the glistening lobes
and penetrate the heart,
I fell for it every time, the sticky bead
laid down on my back as I huddled there
with whatever— mimicking
enemy or friend, the molecular musk
of each a triggering lure—
wanted the most of me. Can I leave now too?
I have death's dust-seed
on me. I have it from touching you.
J. D. McClatchy.
I thought it was interesting metaphors, but I'm sure Bees is actually drunk on the honey of love--or he deserves to b.
Socks are extremely inspirational it seems.
I can't seem to access the search function to find the poetry thread because it keeps running down the page and won't let me click it--weird. Has this happened to anyone else lately?
Anyway, this poem is for the Bees:
Orchid
Now that you are gone, you are everywhere.
Take this orchid, for instance,
its swollen lip, the scrawny stalk's one
descended testicle
as wrinkled as rhetoric on the bar-scene stump,
the golden years since
jingling in its purse. How else signal the bee?
In my swan-clip now languish urgent appeals
from the usual charities
lined up to be ignored. But your flags are up:
I see the flapping petals,
the whorl of sepals, their grinning come-on.
Always game, again
I'd head straight for the column's sweet trap.
Ducking under the puckered anther cap
to glide towards the stiff,
waxy sense of things, where male and female
hardly matter to one's heady
urge to pull back the glistening lobes
and penetrate the heart,
I fell for it every time, the sticky bead
laid down on my back as I huddled there
with whatever— mimicking
enemy or friend, the molecular musk
of each a triggering lure—
wanted the most of me. Can I leave now too?
I have death's dust-seed
on me. I have it from touching you.
J. D. McClatchy.
I thought it was interesting metaphors, but I'm sure Bees is actually drunk on the honey of love--or he deserves to b.
Msmall>Thanks, BlueHorsae, that's a most handsome bee poem, and one I hadn't read before!
*secretly switches bees to decaf*
Some fiend hath my sock
lured from its happy home
so now it wanders, woolly,
ever worsted, and forlorn.
The mate it left behind
is woe,and I have one
cold foot where'er I go.
To a fairy grot I strayed
by yonder ferny glen
and inquired most politely
if They'd send it home again.
There, seated on a mound,
I piped all night for Them,
the glow of light from underground
I saw, heard laughter of a host
and a lady clothed in green
tried to coax me in with Them.
But I was firm, and would not go,
though sorely tempted by their queen.
O the lonely sock-mate
Snug, curled in the drawer
Waiting
the sock lies sandwiched
between foot and shoe
its days are therefore dark
its pleasures few
small wonder
that it slips away
and ends its days
a castaway
Glad will I be when winter's fled
and gone,
and Spring my tears and fears
abates --
Ah, when will my ten toes
be comforted again?
And The Lone Sock paired
with its missing mate?
when my sock returns
from its long sojourn
whose woe will be
the first to heel?
my sock is gone
it was all green,
it had tremendous
socks-sppeal!
my heart doth fill
with wooly glee
at thought of it
come back to me!
ah bees - ever witty and painful
Whose hose pulls the no-shows?
That wascally nostrildamus
What fiend rules the sock scene?
The beetime is upon us
What slacker fails the sock test?
That would be the other petebest.
socks need to be summoned
invited into the sock drawer
into the hamper into the dryer
coaxed onto the foot then the floor
firm under them as they flex
and lift
swing and descend
housing the feet snugly
as along the track
they wend
praise socks
and pamper them
any time
ye hamper them!
remove the splinters
and the burrs
that socks collect
or else expect
them to disappear
abruptly quietly
as onto their own secret path
they steer
A nose today I found
My pup's
Observing from the ground
As I went about applying my lucky green socks.
Always observant, she
That dog
Appears quite earnestly
To marvel at the concept of my lucky green socks.
Only just realized
That hound!
Has taken - by surprise
And brazenly absconded with one lucky green sock!
Come back here you @#%! cur!
You bitch!
I should have known it's her
Who took away and nested with my lucky green sock!
Ah ye darned animal, you do have a cute face don'tcha. Don'tcha!
I dreamt our two paths
crossed again
I dreamt you home with me
and me in socks of green
and you in socks of white
dancing our old dance
before the flicker from the hearth
until the rich smoke the snap of wood
the feel of you enchanted me again
to wakefulness
to find you gone
from all around
except my mind
Whenever I write in prose
I'm nearly rational,
yet it seems last night
I attended a bacchanall
I wore my green tie
and a pair of green hose
and very little else
in the way of other clothes
and, to judge by the pictures
on the front page,
green socks were somehow
all the rage, for they
appeared in every shot.
How? Dunno -- for I remember nought.
It seems a great pity
I can't now recall
what all of us did
with the enticing Mrs Hall.
And why did we climb
to the top of that plinth?
Could we have been drinking
old-fashiooned absinthe?
(I know I got tight)
Well, no doubt it was quite
an enjoyable orgy,
but this morning my head feels
incredibly porridgy..
My collie sleeps beside my bed,
she much prefers the floor;
but the dachshund's annoyingly insistent
that the bed has room for someone more.
Once up, she hogs the middle of the bed,
and ties the covers in a knot
and as for moving over once she's in --
well, she will absolutely not.
So at night there's one bed in my room
full of dachshund, and luckily a second bed
into which I stealthily sneak
once the blanketty blank dachshund's fallen asleep.
All of which above is simply preamble
to the fact I now wear socks to bed -- for the floor's
bare wood, except for the old hooked rug
upon which the collie makes herself all snug.
And some dog (not the collie) ate one of my slippers --
a deed which seems a simple act of spite
for a dachshund's no longer allowed to carry bones
upstairs to chew them in the bed at might.
One cat, my big Main Coon,
Sleeps nestled on my right arm
While I pet his stomach
And he purrs me me to sleep.
The other cat, a Manx,
Is fascinated by feet.
Sometimes he'll wrap himself
Around one foot, pressing his
Tummy against the sole.
It's like wearing one slipper.
Other times, he'll attack my foot,
But gently. Kick it a couple
Of times, then hug it while
he goes to sleep. But, my first cat
Makes sure I'll sleep,cuddled up.
No socks required
hehe awesome bees & path - I take it these verse are snuggled into reality of a sort?
You can try, but cannot resist
the bedhog, the Jack Russell Terrierist
For try though you might
Her theatre is night
Where she stealthily hogs
The bedspace you missed
Though her action's simply malignant
With a shove she grows quite indignant
Made so all the more
As she returns to the floor
With a mighty thump and shake
Then sneaks back until you're acceptant
O the tidbits a fuzzy sock doth make
Wee fuzzy morsels of fluff
Carpet canapes for a wee kitty to take
One linty hors d'oeuvre is never enough.
... think I would go mad wearing a cat on one foot ... have enough trouble with socks ....
Nice one, Koko!
Thanks to the collie, I have long strands and clumps if she's not brushed at least every other day...these go well with the bird dander and feathers...dammit, we need seven maids with seven mops in here! And a vacuum wouldn't hurt, either...
a Collie flowbee perhaps?
I have seriously considered a theory that postulates spontaneous generation of large floor wads of dog hair from my Kelpies as the root cause of Pekes and Shih Tzus.
Eeee! And I thought vampire watermelons were the worst we had to fear!
I knit new cats frequently from the fir on my floor.
I fear the fir upon the floor
the way it shoots out little roots
the moss that hangs down from the ceiling
the lichens crusting o'er the wall
they don't belong in here at all
and give me an uneasy feeling
Will no one wash these filthy socks?
The foul things are as hard as rocks!
And every time they touch the floor
they scratch and gouge it to its core.
There has to be some better way --
will no one throw these socks away?
Don't be so hasty
Mister Bees
Though socks are nasty
Your feet have needs
They long for comfort
When out walking
A sock of some sort
Or perhaps a stocking.
While Bashi has the treasury
and Bashi's smiles are sugary,
the desperate utter flattery
and laughter seems a mockery,
for his people have the drudgery
and all their days are misery.
Folk seldom say, 'sockloose and fancy-free'
though why we don't is a mystery to me.
Methinks I see the word "Bashi"
A misplaced piece of poetry?
Aye.
/dolt
Uh-oh: Oh where has my lucky verse gone? I miss it so, etc.
Sock-loose and fancy-free
will never suit me!
I want both socks in each pair,
not strolling around with one foot bare!
My socks are dear to me --
they embrace each bony foot
so I can galivant about
in woolly felicity!
A pox upon the thief
who snatches one but not the both,
a fiend as fatal to my woolly ones
as any hungry moth.
A hat on head
A sock on foot
My underwear
I did not put
I'm strangly cold
I'm feeling bare
That other sock
I'd better wear
forgot to mention that poor poem was dedicated to bees and inspired by pete_best
and I don't know what happened above, I swear
Ma'am, I'd admire to hear more about this Strangly Cold galoot o' yours.
soggy
smelly
too long
airless
locked in leather
footing it featly
everywhere
I go
o what boots it?
At work
there are white socks
covered with sneakers
it's a hospital
At home
there are white socks
covered with dog hairs
it's a mess
today I choose to wear
dog-coloured socks
to dock by the sea
of the sod-coloured mallards
that won't eat the collards
or sing ducky ballads
ir pay for my dinner
with one legal dollar
I have a singil sok,
bot one in numbyr,
and every nyht I pull hym off
in myn ladye's chaumbyr.
Good grief, roryk! *gives him Monkey Crown for King of Ascii Art*
roryk, those are marvels!
my nose is long and bulbous
and my feet are just enormous
and every time I picks 'em up
I sprains my psoas
I like to sip my negus
from a painted scyphus
and darn my socks so beauteous --
they're green as asparagus
*blushes*
goes to look up meaning of psoas, negus.
Those socks are so real I can feel the fuzz...
Initially, I thought I had clicked on the link to the blacksocks site, and they had updated their frontpage with a new logo!
Man, that's some good ascii! I can practically smell those socks.
And kudos to bees for making this thread one of the best on MoFi.
Glad ye like it, oklo; many monkeys have contributed to this thread, and hopefully more will.
off my feet I pluck
one lone, lorn sock
the other's disappeared somewhere
when I ran out of luck
a sock is but a well-wrought cloak
to wrap the foot of some poor bloke
Pox!
for well-wrought read well-heeled, please
Stocking, stocking, growing ripe
in the bosom of the night,
what intrepid breed of men
would dare to put ye on again?
In breif but weird alt summation;
I do declare o'er all the land -
The sock is found! On my vacation!
If I only knew where i am!
Hi petes!
Hope your enjoying yourselves!
Don't loose that sock, petes,
or we'll not have it
to put on our feets.
gah! my apologies. i was running a vb script on my machine and trying to read monkeyfilter at the same time. the evil script posted an empty comment, i suppose because my browser had focus...
Yet if considered as a picture...or an answer... it is thought-provoking, nonetheless, roryk.
;]
thanks bees.
as a matter of fact, i am wearing sandals today, without socks, black or otherwise. naturally, the weather has transformed from a sunny june morning to torrential rain, thunder, and lightning.
Together we've skied down the slopes
and mounted horses by the score
but now you're threadbare as my hope
of finding you back in my drawer.
For some among the laundry crew
--folk who knew not what they did --
one morning thrust you deep into
the garbage can and slammed the lid.
They will not leave my socks in peace!
They sneak into my room with ease
and steal my stockings from the drawer
though I lock and bar the bedroom door
Over the hamper I stand guard,
to catch these rogues I am prepared --
I have a net I have a rope
I'll make them feast on laundry soap!
I do not want
Bee's moldy socks
He may keep them
in a lock'd box
A box nailed shut
with numerous locks
And heaped upon it
piles of rocks
Unhand my socks! I cried aloud
and roused the house to seek the thief
who'd made off with my well-darned socks,
may he roast on a spit o'er the Fires Beneath.
My household groaned and made complaint,
"Hey! Getting up again we ain't!"
And so I sit with my trusty dogs --
qw'll down the guy who steals my togs!
=we'll
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ sometimes ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ i am obliged to ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ satisfice ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
═════════ pairing one sock ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ with another ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ that's not as nice ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
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▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
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▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒
))), roryk!!!
O one is white
and one is grey,
disgraceful when they
get that way!.
I think that I shall take a seat
And take some time to watch my feet
Another sock I cannot lose
For another one would make it two's!
my sock is sweet and thick
as a marshmellow
I'm glad it doesn't belong
to some other fellow
I'm sure my joy would be complete
with a thick white sock on either foot,
but since one sock won't cover two feet
there's just no way that I can do it
Doug Tanoury
Ode To Feet
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.
Footloose, with fancy fried,
I find I tuck my toes inside
my hat, my shirt, my overcoat,
since Mrs Murphy's billygoat
has eaten both my green wool socks --
I take my toes for lengthy walks.
In Which He Wanders, Lonely as a Crowd
Foot the First
Socks and the man I sing, who thirsted
to wear two socks of woolen worsted
while he hiked across the rugged hills
in search of herbs to lessen mankind's ills.
He sought the flower, bud, and eke the root,
the bark, the stem, the leaf, the berry and the fruit,
the corm, the drupe, the pod, the husk,
all this he did between day's dawn and dusk.
Each night he'd build a tiny fire, eat, and wash
his filthied socks, and hang them on a bush,
until the sorry day came when he could not find
one sock, now fled, which left him, bare, behind.
I grabbed a cask of ale,
A wench
She squealed, "What's that smell?"
That feeted stench?
My socks set sail
And since
I've steeled my nose from hell
The Pirate's Foot!
Ahhrrr!
poor wandering sock
though thou hast surely strayed
take epsom salts
and we shall waltz
sock be not now a-frayed
O the sock of my dreams
is the darnedest sock
of all the socks I know
each threadbare strand
like a worn sweatband
stretches both high and low
the green of its sheen
is the eeriest seen
between here and the Northern Lights
and though my sock may be
still a far cry from me
I'll miss it those cold winter nights.
Cold nights.
Feet fishing
Under covers
For warmth.
But loving the
Chill in anticipation.
Cold nights.
Feet fishing
For warmth.
A lover's legs!
No socks needed
When warm flesh is next to me.
Cold nights.
Blanket weight
Sinks us
Into dreams,
While we sleep, and
We'll sleep late in the morning.
On cold nights.
*hugs path*
*tickles mct*
*applauds*
Hey hey what's going on around here?! Darned kids! *shakes fist*
*ahem* mi mi mi mi miiiii
The joy of socks
They rock my feet
To the beat of the street
Best when the dryer
Dings, I apply them
Hot like my socks rock
Shoes not needed
Advice heeded to sleep
In sock footed sheets putted away
Waiter! Another beer please
Three mateless single socks
I stuffed into a fourth,
and the collie, once I threw it,
chased after it for all she's worth.
Other than this,
I find little use
for such leftover socks
abound in my house.
We use socks to polish the vehicles,
the windows, walls, and the floor
and sometimes we pop one over
the dachshund's snoot as she starts to snore.
We've socks heaped high on furniture,
socks choke our closets, too,
we stuff them full of decorative rocks
for we've nothing better to do
That blasted Jack
Russell Terrierist
Cares Not
If it's two or it's one
Of a Sock
Just tie 'em together
Each other they'll tether
'til she mangles the one
Then the other
in a pinch, I coat
my feet in mud
so once it dries
my footsteps thud
I wouldn't have to do
this messy thing
if I only knew
where my green socks flew
I took my cast-offs
those lonely ones
whose once-paired mates
had upped and gone
my socks I carried
among the trees
I asked the queen
can you mend these?
be sure I'd darn them
if I could
but we've no needles
in this dark wood
I went to borrow
a needle of gold
oh dear, we're out of
them, I'm told
it's not fair
to be part of a pair
and have your mate go out somewhere
to make them complete
with mismatched feet
I'll beat the street
and one by one
away they'll run
my job is done
*socks run away from horrible poetry*
it can't be that bad, GramMa, I smiled ;)
I asked the missus
Would she mend them
She glared askance
I'll ask again then
grandmother likes to sit and knit
warm things for when it snows
striped mittens for our fingers
heavy stockings for out toes
Ach, my Pete, yer a sweet, dear boy.
unfortunately, he's got piss-poor taste in poetry
*spoken sotto voice
We've searched and looked and wondered
On days that we've dressed and we've laundered
But damn, what the fock?
Where is that damn sock?
This foot fetish thread is conunder'd
At last a clue!
Ach Laird, it was due!
To renew this thread marked with a colon:
The socks are all odd -
The lorry was robbed!
Cor blimey, the damned things was stolen!
Presents the Bronzed Sock o' the Week Award to petebest.
Wh00t!
Oh Gosh! I . . I just want to thank my agent, Marty Sockstein, the good people at MonkeyFilmters, uh . . oh geez I didn't think . . uh, GramMa of course - Hi GramMa! - and I don't think any of us would be up here without a special wacky bee who made this all possible - I . . I said I wasn't going to cry . . .
*cue theme music*
This is GramMa reporting from the Bronze Sock awards. I'm happy to be here tonight with you on this awesome occasion. Petebest has just received his Bronze Sock, and I'm sure you'll agree that his acceptance speech touched the hearts of everyone. The audience is in tears. Let me tell you, the gown he's wearing is absolutely fabulous. It's a very sheer, very clinging backless gold stretch lame with a V-cut neckline, dangling wrist ribbons, and a wide puce bow at the hips. Peeping fetchingly out from under the hemline is a single pink sequin-encrusted, lace topped bobby sock.
*throws arm wide*
Everyone, give it up for ... PETEBEST!
*thunderous applause*
Moral: Ach, sometimes 'tis best to lose rather than win, at least if GrandMa makes ye wear gold lame and puce together like that.
heheh - at least she didn't reveal the bet I lost . . .
I put my sock upon my head
for want of better inspriration
O wot is Wrong with you? they said
I was an object of some consternation
it's tough to know what's best to do
when just one of a pair is dealt to you
in circumstances of this sort
I'd really rather teleport
and now I sit at this card table
and fold as fast as I am able
bees - thanks for making me laugh for a long time.
My story told
For all to see
I tried to bluff
As did the bees
With Jacks and Tens
I raised my wager
I gripped the table
I sipped my lager
I took one more
Tightened my gaze
I drew a six!
And began to raise
Six, Jacks and Tens
I licked my lips
Big bets agains
But I was out of chips!
I'll take the risk!
My eyes were locked
I slipped my shoe
And bet my sock!
I call them in
The gambler waits
I play my pairs
He plays a straight!
Oh now I'm done
I wait in shock
I walk home broke
Without my sock
I grumble on
Oh lady luck!
My bluff was great!
My cards, teh suck.
))) !!!
A powerful and moving tale, pete -- especially if 'twas your last pair.
...of xocks.
those are Z-otic socks, of course.
/buzzes off
Here the salmon
must be sock-eyed
as they fin their way
through the incoming tide.
And elsewhere the Evil have ruthlessly
pocketted
the moneys they filched
before they were docketted.
Not nylon, not rayon, not cotton,
but warm and wooly;
high and low I searched
unsockcessfully
for my green sock strayed
away from me.
Christmas stockings I have seen
are no more knit
but felty objects of red and green
that only a lunatic would deem
could fit a young child's foot
and into which only so many gifts
can possibly be put
unlike the old knit stockings
which would s t r e t c h indefinitely
and might well contain hastily added things
you never asked for nor expected Santa to bring
-- the jar of cocktail onions
the collection of skeleton keys
the pair of pince-nez glasses with the cord
the small box of heavy-duty brads and picture hangers --
which often proved to be the most interesting toys
for entertaining myself and the other boys
a hole in one sock:
and out sticks a toe
of the monkey
whose number is
one eight oh
I wondered where that other sock thread went to.
Are even the threads about missing socks coming up missing now? Good Mothra!
I lost the sock thread
All fuzzy in my head
Black
And lying in drawer
But then GramMa found it
Bees was abound in it
Bumbly
In poets full flower
when one sock goes
I notify the media
and press its wretched mate
in the ensocklopedia
I think the game's afoot for you bees . . .
I call a halt!
can such things be?
my left sock's run
away from me
yet one is left
and in my drawer
confusingly
it's left once more
that can't bee right . . .
"I don't have a photograph, but you can have my footprints. They're upstairs in my socks."
--Groucho Marx (1890 - 1977), In the film A Day at the Races
OK, Pete, get on over here and clean up the M&M's you made me spit on the keyboard...
What is so ripe as a sock in June?
I say a sock in any monthly moon
may well outdo the ripest stinking cheese
and leave folk grimacing with dis-ease.
And this is why, be it June or July,
sock-caustic comment greets me as I fly.
Several times I've sniffed a rose
Who's presents smells as sweet -
But ne'er again shall I test my nose
Against which socks are cleaned of feet
Words against the sock:
Socks
by Bryan K. of MN
I do not like
These things called socks
They seduce the feet
Then make rancid smells
Their fluffiness
Is deceitful
And their caress
Is often vulgar
They steal the soft touch
Of the morning grass
From tiny toes
And soft carpet
Is not felt
They keep feet
All toasty
A perfect place
For multiple bacteria
I think
These things called socks
Need to go
socks are sneaky
often quirky
they leave, and then
I feel unlucky
panicky
because my sock's
so finicky
gone on some trip
where life is risky
I hate it when
my socks get frisky
Wow i heard a hip-hop beat to that one bees - reprasehnt!
Frisky socks
can take feet dancing
Frisky socks
may take feet prancing
Prancing feet
get out about
Frisky socks
may then wear out
The frisky sock matter will make you mad as a hatter! With feet pitter-pattering, you've gone a-wandering you silly old thing! Now, don't pout if you're out and about, on a Canadian route, you're oot and aboot! Get clued to the truth of boots and shoe-shooing like an elephant's ear hears a young Who hoo-hooing!
*pant* *gasp*
*hands mic back to bees*
You down wid it, Pete!
Lemme hear ya say "heeyyyyyyy!!!"
Lemme hear ya say "hooooooo!!!"
soon green will be the grassy glade
where late my sock strolled on parade
farewell o stocking green as jade
I'd seek ye, but ye do evade
these empty hands, for holding made
I sent my socks to the dry cleaner
on their return, one looked far greener
and I complained, my words came keener
than anguished howls from a hyena.
The proprietor with equal fury
said we should put it before a jury.
"My socks were green; one came back white!
You know this sock is nothing like!
What's more, it should be made of wool!"
I told him that he was a fool.
But he, with manner growing meaner
had me charged with a misdemeanor.
*applauds from the courthouse steps*
Socklore
A sock of woollen grey
isn't worth a load of hay.
This cotton sock of navy blue
was soon worn through.
The sock of nylon yellow
makes me look a silly fellow.
And I'll not trade my wooly sock
for an egg of the Great Auk.
I seek my sock
from shore to shore
and whinge about it
like a bore
as on these rocks
I sit and jaw
my sock was green
it wasn't blue
and it stepped out
of my left shoe
leaving me to groan
with woe
if you seek a sock with vigour
and you fill yourself with liquor
you will not find what's missing quicker
lo!
league upon league
of entries
in my sidebar
clearly I was
gone too long
I've lost a sock
And with a waddle
I lurch and look
Inside this bottle
I've found no sock
Nor wisdom still
A sockless sot
I am until
I stop
A lot
*hic*
we must cork
the cockpunch
at once!
Corkpunch all 'round!
on a sea
of cockpunch
pete embarked
at lunch
and the sea dogs
howled
as he disembowelled
a schooner of ale
in pursuit of a mythic
white whale
I've walked a hole
in every sock I own
now I'll order new ones
by telephone
I've lost a sock again
It's true
This one was white
Like the other two
And now I'll sigh
A brief boo hoo
You stupid sock!
I loved you too
I sat this morning by the stream
I set my boots on a ledge of rock
where the water swirls about and knocks
then Something that I couldn't see
snatched one old sock
away from me
and now I wander by the brook
tryng hard to whistle it back
A senseless single sock I see -
In song e'er whistled by a bee,
Get hence yon sock! Come walk with me!
Alack, it floats away . . pity
The sock that's stranded
on the shore
cries, "Farewool, my love,
forevermore!"
His yarns are spun,
downstream he tumbles;
and, like a cataract,
he roars and grumbles.
Socks are fickle things. Bare feet always stay with you.
Aye.
And oh! the difference to me!
A fickle sock
A pickle this trodding about in,
Barefoot and clod hopping
Winter's curse!
What's worse that slopping about
The frozen mud atop rocky streams
I seem
A particular sot
*hic*
Bare feet in the dewy grass.
California winter.
Yes, it's a little cold out,
But my feet were too warm
Under the covers, so
A treck into the backyard
Has made them happy.
That's known as approximate poetry.
bear feet
stay away
from my
door!
sock please come home
if you're the same
sock I wore
I won't even blame
you for taking an
excursion
although ye left me
standing barefoot
and cursin'
heh heh heh
Dew-cooled feet are always the happiest feet.
alas! when I go barefoot
on the grass
I'm sure to get cut or stung
or scratched
so I make it my infallible practise
to give two hoots
and pull on my boots
before my feet get cactused
Nothing closer to heaven like the startling sting of a pair of cold feet... when they are not your own.
I wore my mismate socks to bed
Port was green, and starboard red
Warm my feet and cold my heart
My dreams would start and stop and start
)))!
You constantly, as if in a rut
put your two cold feet upon my butt
I wish upon your head a pox
please wear to bed your god d**med socks
Another Coffee Spittake Moment® brought to you by BlueHorse.
I am crude, they tell me
for I wear socks to bed
but what's a guy to do
when his elderly dog
insists on licking
and licking and licking
his bare feet till they're red?
Socks are the bane of every lad
in summertime, when feet unclad
stride o'er the sands, and toes ticklish
tread full upon a jellyfish.
I never sawr
My foot more sore
Than when upon
A Man o' war
A spindly beast
I mugged and screeched
I need 500
Socks at least
But now I trundle
A bit more humble
'pon the sandy shore
My feet in bundles
A Mexican, who speaks no English, comes to the USA. As is often the case, he finds that he needs new socks. So, he walks into a clothing store, and manages to convey to the clerk that he needs something, but not what.
So, the clerk starts taking down boxes and showing what's inside to the Mexican. He shows him a shirt, some pants, a tie, a hat, but each time the Mexican shakes his head and says "No."
Finally, the clerk brings down a box of socks and shows them to the Mexican. The Mexican starts nodding vigorously and says "¡Eso sí que es!"
The clerk angrily blurts out, "Well why didn't you just spell it in the first place?!"
tell that one when
ye get to meet
that daring pirate
Jean Lafitte
Captain Silver, wool socks on,
Was far too warm to wear long johns.
Heh!
If the captain
was Long John,
surely he'd but
one sock on?
Long John, Long John, what's that on yer nethers?
"I'm wearing wooly stockings, in concession to the weather."
Monster, I'm doubtful o' these nethers
for, though he'd his nautical act together,
Long John Silver had a single leg
o' flesh; t'other was a wooden peg.
socks are bare necessity
for anyone ticklish as me
barefoot I cannot cross a lawn
unless I've got shoes and socks on
Holey, Holey, Holey, Holed Sox Almighty
I sought to hold a maiden,
As fair as any foaled,
With golden tresses laden -
Well heeled, and so well soled.
(I could not take the jade in
Because my sox were holed).
I'd normally have sold her
With clever lies well told;
Or maybe bowled her over
With kisses overbold;
(But I could not enfold her,
Because my sox were holed).
Quoth she, "I find you holy,
All-wise and lofty-souled;
But I reject you wholly --
My goal depends on gold.
(Not just your sox are holey,
Your trousers too are holed.)"
"Though hotly coaled your stove be,"
Cried I, "your heart is cold;
I'd rather die and moulder
Than fit into your mold.
Let richer lovers hold you -
I like my sox well-holed."
You dears whose arms enfold me,
Long, long may you be skoaled!
But as for you who scold me
Because my clothes are old,
I'll live to see you mould,
And when your death-bell's rolled,
I'll dance in sox still holed.
-- W[illard] R. E[spy]
Am I the only one who saw the tag description of black socks and immediately assumed that this was a thread about seventies' porno films?
Just sayin' is all.
I'm tellin' ya Berek, get yer head outta yer...pants.
BEWARE!
Doctor's Orders
By Ronald Tomanio
At the end of the day
when you fall into bed exhausted
I advise you dream all night
Go ahead, but take off your socks
Both of them
socks cut off your circulation
causing many peaceful people to have nightmares
about foot stranglers
Now, foot stranglers notoriously show no mercy
so take off your socks
Please
In the awake world where half the race
is punching the other half in the face
I ask you to be gentle with your feet
be gentle with other people’s feet
then work your way up to the face
and slowly kiss each cheek
not just one
but everyone
Remember the smooth softness
of the face of the universe
Lay down on your bed facing the stars
sleep and dream like an old cat
foot stranglers hate that.
some like to tread
on soles
that are socked
some like to write poems
for monkeys to mock
the day is so long
and tempers so short
some plan to go home
and down a half-quart
oh, no
with this big hole in the toe
now I can't
sock it away sock it away sock it away!
*guitar solo*
*grabs guitar, smashes it against wall, hands back remains, shrugs*
Sorry
*silently hands Berek broom and dustpan
*buys Pete plastic ukalele
*performs air guitar solo with broom*
*kicks rubbish under couch*
*rocks out on broom*
some garments once they made for me
half mocassins half socks
they had a woolly footy stench
to part with 'em was no great wrench
I buried 'em beneath yon rocks
What do men do when socks are gone?
There's always this solution:
Take heart and learn to knit our own
With a hero's resolution.
Be not afrayed of fleece that's made
Into bright yarn that's multi-plyed,
but with our needles stitch away
Two socks that let our bare feet hide.
My sockless world
Has got no gas
My sock-thread post, no rhyme
Without teh Webz
There's no SockClass
Like school in the summertime
Isockles hang
from wintry bough -
my toes are frozen,
knit, my brow.
the socks of winter
are seldom thinner
than socks of summer
right now 'tis fall
when wise men all
their socks will cull
and buy some new
to warm their shoes
and feet withal
sock, why have you deserted me?
my tears create a salty sea
that you and I part company
so here I groan in deep blue panic
by this severance driven frantic
I tip my heel, I tap my toe
and wonder if you did not know
that you, dear sock, were talismanic
lucky green sock, please hurry back
forgive me for being rude and slack
and not writing this like Kerouac
green how I love you greengoodany poetry? Bees, would you rather have the striped kind with toes in them? (psst, guys, I was thinking more a fuzzy purple hat for Nostril--don't spoil the s'prizeOwner doesn't remember.Or perhaps, the owner can't remember! Can these socks induce amnesia in human beings? It would explain much. Theis person seems to regard the thick green socks as comfortable. Adds they seem to disappear on their own. Very suspicious! Hmm. I think we know the kind of socks these are. All too well.Skoal, sweet prince! That's a grand portrait of you with your good Hollands; 'twill make a delightful addition to the Monkey Gallery on the wall beside my 'puter.talkswrites bad poetrywhose woe will be the first to heel? my sock is gone it was all green, it had tremendous socks-sppeal! my heart doth fill with wooly glee at thought of it come back to me!▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▓▓ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▀▀ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ █▌ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ █▌ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ █▌ ▐████████▌ █▌ ▐████████▌ █▌ ▐████████▌ █▌ ▐████████▌ █▌ ▐████████▌ █▌ ▐████████▌ ██► ▐████████▌ ███► ◄█████████▌ ████► ▐██████████▌ █████► ◄████████████► █████► ██████████████► █████► ◄██████████████► █████► ◄██████████████► █████► ◄█████████████► █████► ◄█████████████► ████► ◄█████████████► ██► ◄█████████████► ◄█████████████► ◄███████████► ◄████████► ◄█████►▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ sometimes ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ i am obliged to ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ satisfice ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ═════════ pairing one sock ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ with another ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ that's not as nice ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓▓▓▓▓ ▒▒▒▒▒