The great dictatorship of the futon
A hybrid beast not truly made for two
Cover play turned treatised malice
The brilliance of cold imposed on waking
To find no roses just pillows between
Lying nestled in inert ecstasy
Singing rusty hist'ries, its a sales job
For the masses Know that it will return
No wit like the brain before sleep sets in
No sight like a deaf dreamers providence
No solution like the one no one wants
To drift away and return on waking
The day seems touched to find us divided
A restful sleep met with a restless heart