My kingdom for a warm, woolen, foot covering...in an argyle pattern! - King Louis XXI.
Note: This poem is quite dear to me(thank you for starting this competition, Marionette), as I grew up on a small sock farm that my parents owned in rural Queens, NY. I can still remember picking the ripe socks in the morning sun, as the chickens cawed at it's arrival, and thinking to myself 'thems' a lot of socks there!' -M.
As I gather socks today,
Amongst the fields of wheat and whey,
I think about a lovely girl,
For whom some hose I would unfurl
The sun it gathers on my brow,
And gol' it burns, oh-oww, oh wow!
And yet I pick another 'left'
While choosing errant SPF
Gaily, we would run the fields,
With socks upon our hands as shields
And youthful fun in footed stalks,
Turned into love as turned the clocks
I met her as I picked a pair
Of lovely argyle hanging there
Our hands met thru the golden leaves,
And stole my heart like stocking thieves
And now I look at her and stare,
At anklets that she loves to wear
For with her socks she does bewilder,
As that knitted line is all a-kilter!
And so our love, it still remains,
As long as no one uses Hanes
And memories of those golden fields,
Sew love of socks for which it yields.