In springtime it hangs with other pairs
Naked in the emporium, and time goes slowly there,
And left and right did not even like each other
It spent the summer in the shelf with pullovers
In the autumn the stockings are joined
It is sold shy of Christmas
For two dollars and nine

Packaged, dispatched and given away
Beneath the dog and the ski it lays,
Gaped embarrassed it waits a while
The next morning begins the employ
Devoted and loyal it fulfils its task
Cares and warms perspiring feet does not ask
For mercy, just quiet

Long it endures the toxical reeks
The endless fights in the washing machine,
The life without attention and wage
But it grows older, the colour fades
After three months and a short revise
It is brought to the rags
Early in the morning

To Africa goes its stony path
Its being as pensioners cloths is hard
Racked by children and far from home
Besmirched with shoe cream, torn, without soul
It ends up lonely, as the story must go
In the muddy banks of the big river
Without a grave

A small crocodile galumphs from the river,
Goes to the sock and says:
"You are a silly sock.
What did you have of that?
The paradise of socks?"
It buries the sock and laughs, glad
That it is not in need of socks.