Its Socks by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Its Socks

Page 39

Verse 2:

The agitator groans like a prophet in pain,

Spinning sermons in cycles, again and again.

My cotton kin vanished, one by one,

Swallowed by static, undone by the drum.

I cling to the mesh like a memory frayed,

Half a cuff, a dream that never stayed.

The heat sings hymns of forgotten threads,

While the vent exhales our unspoken dreads.

Chorus:

We’re frayed but we’re fearless,

Stretched out and sleeveless.

No match, no mate, no use—

We howl in the Lint Trap Blues.

We’re frayed but we’re fearless,

Stretched out and sleeveless.

No match, no mate, no use—

We howl in the Lint Trap Blues.

The song sparked a movement. Dish towels started slam dancing. Scarves formed spoken word collectives. Even the socks who’d sworn allegiance to the Drawer Lords began to question their stitched-in destinies.

After the underground success of Lint Trap Blues, Threadbare Riot began playing secret gigs in laundry rooms and thrift store basements. Their sound; raw, rebellious, and slightly musty, spoke to the disillusioned garments of the world. Discarded denim, exiled mittens, and even resentful neckties gathered in droves, swaying to the rhythm of sock defiance.

The Breakthrough Album: Elastic Rebellion