In slumber's dark and secret places, Where shadows dance upon the wall, Our hero lies in bed, a lazy face Averse to rise, to shine, to fall.
His bed a throne, his pillows soft and deep, A fortress built of blankets, strong and steep. His snores, a symphony of snore, A requiem for all the world's great hopes and dreams.
His phone, a distant hum, a siren's call, A beacon bright, that beckons him not at all. His alarm, a distant, fading sound, A reminder of the world's great, grinding round.