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I am socks.
I am an item of footwear that will spend my entire existence
covering a smelly, sweaty foot,
what will think it’s funny making strange shapes upon the kitchen surface.
Then, as if the indignity has not ended,
I will be put in washing machines to be cleaned for the feet of my owners' use.
Cold dark metallic places where I will drown in chemicals,
and be claustrophobic and suffer abuse
from my owners – who will laugh at the machines.
I will then be put on the washing line,
where roving fetishists will *** me in a sick and perverse manner,
which will make me feel horrible,
until they are found out and have to run away.
Then, I will find myself being eaten by madmen,
who are desperately hungry.
Back on the line, I will suffer nothing but indignity and abuse,
being hung up to dry by cruel owners who will then put me on their feet,
in the house, and walk around with no trousers on,
kicking things because they think they are good at Kung Fu.
And then, when there’s nobody about,
the owner will walk into a dark and secluded place, and practice his Can Can.
I AM SOCKS.