Beside a tap, behind a tree;
It whispered soft, “I shan’t be worn—
I seek a life that’s foot-forlorn.”
A purple one went off to Spain
To tango in the sudden rain.
Its twin remained in Ballycotton,
Threadbare now, and quite forgotten.
The striped pair fell to civil war—
One claimed the drawer, one fled the floor.
They meet now only in my dreams,
Where laundry speaks and lint redeems.
So mourn the sock that slips away,
That leaps the line and won’t obey.
Yet bless the brave elastic soul
That dares escape the drying pole.