My raging was diagonal
The sleep was only of a kind
My last thoughts placed me as a boor
My post-last kicked the duvet far
A rat at salami
A man at his tongue
Far too angry, far too ready, and only faded
From consciousness in that the words were dismissed
Till I arched my tense frame and rolled and shouted
“I shall not be sold to Mrs Lascelles”
Woke to a contortion and to a rebellion
And passed to fabliau non-sleep.
(I recall, however, that Mrs Lascelles’s
Husband’s first name was Charles).
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