I write from the bowels of Wish I Could Sleep
Which borders the swamp of Too Tall
Which was named for the bed that was somehow too short
Where the Sleeper couldn't stretch out at all.

I call, at this very late hour, to say
That tomorrow I'd better not forget
The car's in the shop, the WiFi's down,
And though my new book wasn't great

I can write without car and internet, too
I am capable of this
But if anyone from Luxury calls
Just tell them to talk to the fist!