or,
Why Tuesday and Saturday Should Never Touch

I own a drawer of weekday socks,
Each pair a portal, time-locked box.
Monday’s moody, Wednesday’s neat,
Friday parties on my feet.

But Tuesday’s sock is sly and blue,
It hums a tune from 1982.
Saturday’s bold, with glittered flair,
It smells like brunch and disco air.

One fateful morn, I made a choice,
A rebel move, a daring voice.
I wore them both, a mismatched pair,
And felt a ripple in the air.

The toaster blinked in ancient Greek,
My cat began to softly speak.
The kettle boiled in reverse time,
And BBC played nursery rhyme.

A wormhole opened near my shin,
Out popped Darwin with a grin.
He said, “Nice socks, but heed this plea,
You’ve fractured causality!”

My left foot danced in future tense,
My right regressed to past events.
I sneezed and summoned Julius Caesar,
Who asked if I’d seen his hair tweezer.

So now I warn all sockish folk:
Don’t treat the week like it’s a joke.
Tuesday-Saturday is taboo,
Unless you fancy déjà vu.