Wet socks
make grumpy men:
the same wetness
that spoil their feet
draw out feminine curves,
cotton coyly clinging.
O if only clinging
to them were not the darned socks!
But life is full of twists and curves,
concede the men
at a distance of several feet,
while the wooing-thwarting wetness
couple madly with other puddles of wetness
beneath impotent umbrellas clinging
to their owner’s feet,
wetting more socks
and enraging more men
by being too intimate with unattainable curves.
The corner of her mouth, curves.
In times of wetness,
the sneaky peeks of men
come hard and fast and embarrassed, clinging
to a sense of chivalry as tired as worn socks,
as tongue-tied as verse in scrambled feet.
O Father, by Your Holy Feet,
Deliver them from her curves.
No one ever socks
another, or wrestle in wetness,
or rage with good sense clinging
to the gutter without cause. Deliver lust-struck men,
O Father! A-men.
It is laughable that men then turn to her feet,
clad in stockings clinging.
She cuts across the curves
of the pavement, slick with wetness,
a cruel betrayal of socks.
How fickle their clinging desires, these soggy men!
They who forever misplace their socks and trip over their own feet,
Craving curves glimpsed in moments of exquisite wetness.
