A line of red herrings filing by,
One by one, the sound of thunderous wind
Provoking her murmurs somewhat unkind,
Such is Nature as together we lie,
Trusting to be in Morpheus' arms soon;
 Cool, smooth, white nates caressed by the full moon
Staring at nothing in the blue, grey light
Sensuous aims are now inopportune
But such reveries always bring delight;
Thus fully up gathered, lusty awake:
Great Scot! No doubt there is no sleep for me,
So might I standing, early breakfast make,
But first me thinks I should go for a pee,
For this night Death's brother cannot me take.

With apologies to Wordsworth,  
Sleep   .   The World

Parody and photo-montage © Mirino. January 2012

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