by John Norman-Greenbaum
In another world in the days of yore
I snuck a peek inside the world of Gor
I thought I’d seen all I abhore
Until I saw them lying on the floor
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
Wove of the wool of an abus’ed sheep
They stunk of her masters wet slimey feet
I ran far away, but still they did reek
Oh, my god! if only I hadn’t peeked
At the vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
When Jason sought out the great golden fleece
Clipped from the hide of an ovian beast
He never dreamed, he did not in the least
Smell the infection caused by too much yeast
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
Her master said they would make her complete
If she’d bow down and kiss her master’s feet
The socks had been worn for 17 weeks
Burned holes in marble and smelled of bad meat
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
Invaders came down from far to the north
Into the land the crusaders set forth
To capture women and destroy the source
That darkened the air and sickened the horse
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
The catapults fired all ’round the heads
Of the invaders, now missing their beds,
Sweatsocks were landing and stank of old Keds
Collapsed the lungs of invaders, now dead
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.
So now to celebrate, ev’ry new year
Sweatsocks are used to brew Gorean beer
And to strain the juice for Gorean wine
Although the odor will make you go blind
The vile Sweatsocks of Gor.