or,
Why Sunday and Thursday Should Never Share Feet

Sunday’s sock is soft and still,
It smells like tea and windowsill.
It hums a hymn in woollen tones,
And quotes from ancient garden gnomes.

Thursday’s sock is sharp and sly,
It’s made of tweed and alibi.
It lectures toes on ethics deep,
Then hosts debates while you’re asleep.

One morning, in a sleepy haze,
I wore them both, my boldest phase.
Left foot in peace, right foot in plot,
My ankles argued quite a lot.

The microwave began to pray,
My goldfish filed for NDA.
The doorbell rang in Latin verse,
And socks declared a universe.

A scholar’s ghost emerged from lint,
He gave my heel a moral hint:
“Thou shalt not mix the sacred rest
With weekday socks that love a test.”

My left foot tried to meditate,
My right foot scheduled a debate.
I coughed and summoned Socrates,
Who asked if I preferred Swiss cheese.

So heed this tale, ye sockish kin:
Don’t let the week’s extremes begin.
Sunday-Thursday is a clash,
Of nap and nuance, tea and trash.