The box of socks at every laundromat--
The one that no one knows how long there's sat--
It's sad to see such comfortable old things
And no one listening when each their story sings:
The sweat one's seen from close drawn sporting match,
The levity another always fetched,
Some trodden threadbare favorite left aside,
The next from shame can't help but hide.
What steps they must have had both high and low,
But stumblers now have with the strident been thrown.
Now on their deathbed each alone in comp'ny lie,
And no dear loved one comes to say goodbye.
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