I Hate Wet Socks

I hate wet socks. I'm knee-deep with diapers floating by. The steel stairs steps (that go up!) Just 10 feet from me. Seawater pouring in from every orifice. I'd be dead already if I had not bribed the head caterer. Snagged me a spot 2 levels up From what is now completely submerged. I start breast-stroking it through the brackish, Freezing water. If I had kids I'd be out of my mind right now. Tilt! We're tilting! Arm-straining though sideways-ing water now. Made it to the steel bars but Awkward as all heck making any progress. Scaling Shroeder's stairs, I hear sounds of mayhem above the open square The steel stairs lead me. Shouts of "3 boats left! 3 boats left!" I emerge onto the upper level And onto a sliding ballroom. Hoisting my rump onto the dancefloor I was met instantly by a wheeled baby carriage Zooming into my face. No baby. Black sea water was rushing through the windows on the lower side of the flickeringly lit ballroom. A martini glass, magically half-full, swerves into my sliding lap. A pick it up and slug it back as I brace for The ocean water I'm rushing towards. I was 2nd place in breast stroke in the state. I never thought it would come in handy. That night I got 5 kids into the last few boats And then went down with the ship. Just before losing consciousness, Descending into the dark oceanic abyss I could still feel my dreadful socks. My last thought, still, Hating wet socks.