Upon my bed

The sheets were white- white linen,

But Dirt comes where he is bidden.

Joints are weak, whine on and on;

Strong winds could break it anon.

But I’ve made my bed.

It’s damp- damp where I wet it;

And sure not of the best fit:

Holes have eaten the cover

And left little to savour.

But I’ve made my bed.


There are spots- crimson spots

Which form a pattern of sorts.

There are roses, some fresh,

Whose hooked thorns feed on my flesh.

But I’ve made my bed.

I have made my bed.

I will lie IN it.

I- alone!