Somewhere past the ninth dimension,

In Euclid’s basement, socks ascension—

One odd, one even, one gone stray,

They vanished into disarray.

A triangle swore it saw them last,

While spinning in a Möbius cast.

“Check under proofs!” the circle said,

“But mind the spiral overhead.”

A graphing cat with eyes of pi

Stretched yawns across the x-y sky.

“Chaos,” it purred, “is just a game—

Where symmetry forgets its name.”

The Oracle of Pythagore

Tied socks in knots of metaphor:

“A matched pair’s fate is undefined,

When laundry meets the complex line.”

So if you find a sock alone—

In drawers where dusty numbers moan—

Just blame the math, the fate, the flux:

A theorem lost... to quantum socks.