The Land Of Odd Socks

The land of odd socks is for everything lost,

Like umbrellas, coins and keys,

Where they all go, nobody knows,

Vanishing into the breeze.

Remote controls, disappear like moles,

And nobody knows where It ends,

Items we lose, are now refuse,

With a billion long lost pens. 

Its full of rooms, of old teaspoons,

You swore were In the drawer,

You must conceive, In me believe,

You won't see them Anymore.

Reading glasses, are there in masses,

And this poem I think you will mock,

Remember my rhyme, the very next time,

Your trying to find that sock.