I'm here to expose, What no one knows - Exactly where toes, Goes, In the night. I chose those, The lowest of lows,
(For they are at your bottom-most end) Because of what we all suppose, About our own little toes, And where they goes In the night, With their beaus.
Some say while you doze, They grows, Others, that they flows No, actually that's nose, In need of a blows. Regardless, It is causing,
Much woes. Some whisper they goes, To click-a-clack stilettos, Kept in portmanteaus, Which is why we have sore feet in the morn. Others pose, That they and fellows,
Visit ghettos, And chateaus, Bistros, And burrows, All to appease their wanderlust, Egos. But I have photos,
And ergos, Proof, That those, Pesky toes, Have only one place to goes, Out of the bedclothes, And to the sock-drawer.
Where they sews, And bows, And otherwise compose, Diabolical combos, Of their old foes, The socks. So that pairs are in throes...
Odd socks, Are all that can be chose.