In the land where the socks declare war,
The left ones and right ones can’t take anymore.
The polka dots rally, stripes raise a cheer,
While the ankle-highs tremble and run in fear.

The generals, made of wool and thread,
Plot tactics from atop a giant bed.
"To the laundry!" they shout, with passion so grand,
As they tumble and twist, but can't seem to land.

The...