The cupboard under the stairs

In the cupboard under the stairs

Socks lie in imperfect pairs

The cogs in my head start turning

It smells like toast burning

Should I take on the mammoth task?

Of pairing up these socks at last?

The door is full, fit to burst

I go and put my hand in first

Suddenly socks come flying out

Enough to let out an involuntary shout

Red ones, blue ones, yellow and green

Most of these socks I’ve never seen

I go and get some fabreeze

It puts some of the smell at ease

After about an hour or two

Out of my mouth came one word, ‘phew!’

Finally the socks were in pairs

And empty the cupboard under the stairs