Always Dishevelled

Yes, that's motto, just above the clock:
"Always dishevelled, but never alone."
I have it printed on the telephone,
Stamped in maroon ink on a flattened rock,
And knitted neatly into every sock
Which droops forlornly at my ankle bone.
The one sure thing that I have always known
Is crowded rooms, mobs, people in a block.

My confidence attracts them all like flies,
And when I run, they cry, as if bereft.
Some evenings, when the clever talk lacks heft,
We all go out for steak and kidney pies.
You tell me it's delusion, hope, or lies,
But, friend, I notice that you haven't left.