Falling into a deep slumber,
No dreams appear, no midnight thoughts
Of me gently sawing lumber -
Oh, but that's a low, growling snore,
And there's plenty of that in store
Which I still do not remember...
It's sad that I no longer dream,
As dreams are icing on the cake,
Irish tea with decadent cream:
Food for my poor beleagured soul -
They help rest my mind, make it whole,
Give insanity a good trim...
I hear tale, that I do mumble
As my mind in its restless rest
Does blindly wander and stumble.
I feel I cling to waking hours,
And even when upon my bower,
As reflex to talk, I grumble.
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