I'm tired, and this lonely night
has conspired to make me write.

I'll pour my heart in reds and blacks
upon the rug, and watch you sneer
at the mess I've made. And I'll hug
close the pen, as it cuts into my veins
and hacks a queer line upon the page,
until to sleep's embrace my mind will recede
relieving me of this earnest, bleeding need;

This lonely night demands I write,
but I fear I've not enough ink tonight to do the deed.