My Bed is a Brig
With apologies to R.L. Stevenson
My bed is like a little brig;
Nurse locks me in at night;
Wraps me around in itchy wool
And takes away the light.
The night’s an inky scary blot
In which I’m lost without a chum;
Clutching the cold and sweaty knot
My pillow has become.
But sometimes things to bed I take,
As prisoners are allowed to do;
A handkerchief and a tummy-ache,
A fat bedbug or two.
All night I battle horrid dreams;
With wraiths and spectral brutes I ride;
When fear has torn me at the seams
I’m washed up by the tide.
