There’s a thing stealing socks in our dryer, we know,
It’s stealing them one by one;
It never grabs panties or stuff that won’t show,
It just grabbles up socks by the ton.
I get so depressed when I start to get dressed
With that hopeless, disastrous feeling;
I’m all the time late when I can’t find a mate,
Our sock pile goes up to the ceiling.
On a pretty good day there’s a black and a grey
And my pants meet my shoes real nice;
When everything’s right there’s a cream and a white
And people don’t even look twice.
If I ever find that sock-grabbing thing
It better prepare to be dead;
I’ll stomp it to death with my stocking feet. . . .
A yellow one. And a red.