There seem to be so many socks
They come in black and tan by lots
For fishing is their main event
To be smelly, stinky, musty, wet!

Their trip is but a short hop
From the fish van to the lot
They spend the day in rented boot
Hoping for the fisher's hoot.

I find them in all sorts of places
In cars and vans and tiny spaces
Hosiery left with no grace
Single orphans to replace.

My husband will never tell
Where the socks are hidden well
Reeking, rank, putrid smells
Lead my nose to where they fell

Riches of so many feet
Washed in Tide and Snuggle sheets
Through the washer then the heat
Scores of socks come out neat

Stockings, hose or bobby sox
Can't compare to fishing socks
Foul, bizarre, repulsive odors
Make you utter "What aroma!"