I wrote a poem about this once:
There is a place, way down belowWhere lonely socks, like mushrooms, grow.
Each sock is of a separate kind,Two socks the same, you will not find.
And for each sock there comes a dateWhen it must go seek out its mate.
It seeks a sock both soft and clean,And so it goes to the washing machine.
And there each sock finds two brothers;Choosing one it spurns the others,
And off they go: one sock goes freeAnd one is left where two should be.
So when you go to do the laundryYou find you’re met with quite a quandry:
One sock is gone, where did it go?Where could it be? Well now you know.
I wrote a poem about this once:
There is a place, way down belowWhere lonely socks, like mushrooms, grow.
Each sock is of a separate kind,Two socks the same, you will not find.
And for each sock there comes a dateWhen it must go seek out its mate.
It seeks a sock both soft and clean,And so it goes to the washing machine.
And there each sock finds two brothers;Choosing one it spurns the others,
And off they go: one sock goes freeAnd one is left where two should be.
So when you go to do the laundryYou find you’re met with quite a quandry:
One sock is gone, where did it go?Where could it be? Well now you know.