What a horrid life it seems to me, To be the drone, a male bee,
Who lives for love and lust alone
For it he's bred, fed and grown. Mostly on waking we forget The reveries tapestry,
And to more its as if not Asleep were they, but in reality.
For a strange thing is the mind, Tricked by our slumber embraced brain, And when so confused ourselves we find, We question are we sane? So as you to your slumbers settle, I hope that you sleep well, And at the mornings breakfast kettle, Of no nightmares you have to tell!