Anyway, take socks that sit too tight on the portly ankles of tumescent womenfolk.
They’re black they’re rust they’re fawn they’re blue slush they’re peach melba they’re mushroom they’re mildew they’re tusk they’re cask they’re sherry they’re Campari and soda.
The grippers with the too grippy grip.
The graspers with the too graspy grasp.
Mocking socks are discriminatory.
Mocking socks are misogyny.
Mocking socks can fuck off back to the factory.
What to do with socks that mock?
That cauterise and baudelise and turn toes mauve and ankles cantankerous?
Some say one should ship in the snippers, pinch each sock with two fingers and snip snip snip until the throttling stops. The trouble with the snipping is the inevitable unravelling, an unfurl here and an unfurl there until said socks have dropped beneath your ankles so deep into your soles you’re forced into a waddle that’s either John Cleese or excuse me dear where’s the nearest public facility?
Ach, I hear you cry. Why buy the mocking socks at all? Haven’t you heard of soft tops?
Soft tops are topsy turvy.
Soft tops are wrinkling monstrosities.
Soft tops don’t fangle with frocks. (But they wrangle with sandals).
Lock ‘em up the sellers of strangling socks.
Lock ‘em up dwellers of shrill ankles and sock bankers.
SANDERLINGS 