The House Where All The Left Socks Live
There’s a house where all the left socks live
It’s far and also not so far
The rooms are few but very long
And lined with bunks
Where left socks sleep
When their duties are done
And the wind carries their snores
Across the fields
Across the night
To where the King of Knives and Spoons
Sits alone in his silver room
Scrolls of papyrus on his desk
Demanding his eyes
Keeping him from rest
“I wish I could sleep like the left socks do
Do they dream?
Do they wake
Does it make them feel renewed?”
The King of Knives and Spoons
Puts down his head
On his desk
Just for a minute
Closes his eyes
It doesn’t mean a thing
Look away
Let him rest
It’s been so long
Over five thousand years
“He’s asleep! At last!”
All the spoons and knives cry
“Let’s grab the scissors
And march on the house
where all the left socks
live.”
They do
There’s a house where all the left socks lived
It’s not so far as it should have been
The rooms are empty of any sock
Just piles of yarn
On the floor
And across the world
The right socks mourn
This is why sleep
Is very bad
For socks
And for kings.
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