You say these socks are schizophrenic,

That red and green're not as authenic

As a genuine, legitimate pair.

But wait!  Such reasoning's unfair

Applied to struggling stretched-out orphans

Whose experience as recent morphens

Has left them totally bereft,

Both the right sock and the left.

Each lost his dearly beloved twin

While sloshing around, about
and in

A washing machine as it revolved

Soapily till both evolved

Into poor garments without sibs

And cried into some much-soiled bibs.

You know of course that socks have no

Mother or father or granny, so

When a left proceeds to lose its right

Both lives become an endless
night.

The least that you and yours can do

Is foster-parent these poor two;

Bestow a home that's warmly sweet–