The sock it offends me, and so it must go.
A saggy skin, knit from suspicious fiber, it clings to The Biped’s foot, drooping and dumb, mocking with every step, taunting at every turn.
The sock it offends me, and so it must go.
What is the point pray tell, of such vainglorious wrapping? Are shoes not enough to shelter His Majesty’s tender paws? Are not rubber and leather and steel toes sufficient for the task at hand?
The sock it offends me, and so it must go.
A smelly rag of indulgence, aromatic and soft, it begs to be to be tugged, coaxed away from the toes that protest too much and the sad arch that was never there, and into my mouth where all the playthings of this tasty world must one day land.
The sock it offends me, and so it must go.
And so it has.
Next?