It seems I have a request for an epic poem about dirty socks. I can’t remember the correct rhyming scheme for epic poetry, so I’ll just use rhyming couplets instead. Here goes…
The Rime of the Ancient Martinizer
I’ll tell you now of times long past
When men did eat the gooey brie.
On splendid ships both strong and fast,
They plied the oceans and the sea.
I’ll speak of socks which might be shunned
For fear our wits might just be stunned;
I will now speak upon the Spot:
That dreadful yellow forget-me-not.
The Spot of Dread arrives unseen
From filthy sport socks from Chuck Sheen.
From there the Spot will try to grow
To epic sizes — heel and toe.
One evening, I had cause to sigh
(If I can have an alibi),
For Spot spread out to shirts and pants
To breed anew through random chance.
I felt I ought to try and seek
A martinizer, not the meek.
I searched one high, I searched one not,
I even searched beneath the cot.
The one I found was after doughnuts,
Coffee, and some tasty… um… go-nuts. (?)
Creeping in the darkened corners,
Belching at the passing mourners.
As fearful as I felt that night,
I spoke aloud despite my fright:
“Dear sir,” said I with trembling lip,
Afraid he might request a tip.
“The Spot! The Spot! The Spot!” cried he.
“The Spot! The Spot!” He giggled with glee.
The ancient martinizer had
A mind of rot and temper bad.
“This Spot,” said he, “its colour’s strange.
How did it get the rotting mange?
It must be but a figment of
An ill that fits me hand–in–glove!”
“I have a problem you might fix
While choking down those pizza sticks.
If you would waddle over here
I know of trouble with a beer.”
“A beer?” asked he of Mister Parker,
“Would it be Lite or something darker?”
“Just that,” said I, the name not known,
But happy getting more than moan.
“Now look,” said I, “I need your help.
It’s not at all to do with kelp.”
“With kelp?” he frowned, now in a dither.
“Why would kelp be here or thither?”
“Please,” I prodded for attention.
“This I say is much worth mention.”
“Fine,” said he, “but be you wrong,
I’ll smack you down like big King Kong.”
“Sure, sure,” said I, and showed the way
Back to the Spot I’m sure was fey.
“And here it is!” I yelled aloud,
The Spot was looking like a crowd.
The martinizer waddled faster,
Eating like a Jedi Master.
“Use the Fork,” old Ben had taught
When fighting with a Sock of Spot.
And now, this bit will end the verse
Before I exit in a hearse.
I hate to write without much sense,
And do not want a recompense.
So now I must be on my way.
“Good day,” is what I have to say
To all my guests of this, my blog,
Feel free to browse and pat the dog.
