Two legs, in ponies prancing, strut, a chest
of socks that won’t quite shut, a maxed
out Visa, cruel clerks can cut. Stripe of flesh,
thigh high, argyle smut — a cotton climax.
A stalk of stores and styles galore — Target,
princess, Wal-mart, whore. No kneesocks left in
her hometown. Safari hunts requisite
for pairs unfound, such snug secrets on skin.
Pictures, poses, provocateur, she talks
to strangers young, mature. Photo shoots
in heels and bed with socks on arms and bows
on head, acrylic paisley prostitute.
Be it addiction or stylistic rut,
her game is gams, no shame; her name: Sock slut.
Pink Litter. 