My Obstinate Socks

All my Socks are Obstinate,
Nowhere close to Opulent.
Flee from Me at Every Chance,
What I’ve Coined the “Scatter Dance.”

Been that Way for Many Years,
Has – at Times – caused “Socking Tears.”
Just can’t Seem to Get Along,
With their Mates where They Belong.

Starts when Pulled Out from the Drawer,
To Match them Up becomes a Chore.
It’s like They have Traded Places,
Deep within the Darkened Spaces.

That’s only If they Don’t Conspire,
When I take Them from the Dryer.
Half the Time some Disappear,
Gets my Goat and that is Clear.

Many times they Turn up Later,
Acting like an Agitator,
In the Sheets and Underwear,
Wedged in Pants – Behind a Chair.

Guess I should Accept Defeat,
Walk around in My Bare Feet,
Perhaps my Ire put at Ease,
Turn them into Sock Monkeys.