Sleep well the night's almost through
And those dreams tell such uncomely truths.
You can taste it; the sweat arches over your brow.
The salt on your lips as it burns in your mouth.
Back to sleep, child, the fever will break.
Pray the Lord, mild, which souls he should take.
You can brace yourself, boast that you're free of the guilt,
That you fear and regret are a function of will.
With a smile.
Was he holding your hand or was he holding you down?
Does the blame rightly rest on the foot or the ground?
Back to sleep.