Spend my nights counting sheep
Might as well change my name to Little Bo Beep
I have flocks of hundreds, leaping over fences
Counting them all, as the bleating overwhelms my senses
But they don’t lead me to the land of sleep
All these baa-ing, stinking woolly sheep
I’m sure they are sniggering, as they prance in my head
And I lay fighting with the covers in my bed
Eyes red turn to a window, lit with early dawn
Another night passed and the sheep have withdrawn
I head out, another day, clothes dressed inside out
Too late to change, too busy dealing with the fallout
Of arriving late to work, and to the boss’s rant and rave
God I can’t remember his name, is it Brian or Dave?
But slowly his voice fades to the sound of a bleating lamb
And his head takes on the form of an angry woolly ram
Baa, Baa, Blacksheep, the nursery rhyme sings
In my head. I feel sudden expresso cravings
I battle through the rest of the day, coffee on tap
And at lunchtime I manage a ten-minute power nap.
Then home and an early night put into place
Hot milk, no TV, a book to create a relaxing base
I am primed for the perfect night’s sleep.
But two hours later, I am wide awake. Counting sheep.
