What am I to do with you my dears?
My mind said to my thoughts.
The ink is thick, the bustle gone
and now you want to romp.
The sun has packed his rays
and all the world its stimuli,
and in the deadened void that’s left
you want to multiply.
Though I tucked you into bed
it seems that I was tucked with thee.
Alas, besieged, I cannot flee,
my day is done, not me.