Wife Rule #142: Give It Up (Or, Rumination on Socks)

The Sock War is raging: the battle's begun,
The odds stacked against me, it's now six on one.
The front is our home; sock-mines litter the field.
Each stocking a stinking, curt weapon to wield
Against my poor saneness, forlorn and alone,
The casualties mounting, and no one has won, yes,
With casualties, no one has won.

Why bother with socks? Reason gives them no sway.
My cotton-clad feet stand aloof in display
Of sound sense and judgement, of propriety while
Their barefooted, bohemian, naked-foot style
Prevails in our household; itself not a crime
Were it not for the sodden, soiled socks left behind, yes,
The sodden, soiled socks left behind.

They cling to the couches, flung carelessly there.
They clump in the cracks of our best reading chair.
They litter the hallways, the closets, the stairs.
They migrate great distance, though never in pairs.
They pile up at doorways, for who could suppose
Wearing footwear outside? For that matter, why clothes? Yes,
For that matter, why-the-heck even clothes?

Look here, there's a stocking; another is there.
Look around and you'll see dirty socks everywhere.
(Except when we're rushing to leave, and we're late;
Then each stocking's mysteriously missing its mate.)
And the laundry rolls on in its regular round
But when folding and pairing, no pairs can be found, yes
When pairing no pairs can be found.

So the war rages on, with no allies for me;
Even my normally-sensible wife won't agree.
With her love of the breeze, her zest for aeration,
Her sympathies lie opposite my frustration.
So the foot cannons fire, fetid fumes fill the air,
And surrounding me lie littered socks everywhere, yes,
Surrounding me, socks everywhere.

I'm simply outnumbered. I've lost. I'm too few.
What's a sensible, sock-wearing man now to do?
So I'll lay down my weapons, emerge from my trench,
And remove my own stockings, unleashing my stench.
And to prove my good will, though they'll faint from the shock,
I'll run up the white flag:
My old, smelly sock.
Yes--
I'll give them my old,
Peeled-off, partially-rolled,
Dingy white, golden-toed,
Thinning, soil-stained, brown-soled,
Filled with stenches untold,
Chilling sight to behold,
Filthy squeamish,
And greenish,
And covered-with-mold
--yes,
Give it up for my old, smelly sock!