I tried to throw out my favourite trakkydaks
Gift to the flag irises and bromeliads
Forty years’ comfy wear, that’s the facts
A couple of holes, easily mended yet sad
100 percent cotton, washed out pale green
Hung off my frame faithfully, concealing
Lumps and bumps, a warm inner bogan
Uncaring of yobness before social ceiling
Robbed pleasure from non-objectified self
With trakkydaks now a secretive fetish
For this wannabe neo-primitive wood elf
Stuff the wankers, I’ll keep them, be selfish.
Jinjirrie
June 2017