Of all the things we do in bed,
from practical to thrilling,
why is it that becoming dead
should always get top billing?
For starters, you might think we’d hear
much more about the Sex Bed;
the Bed for Smoking, Snacks and Beer;
the Drunk-Text-With-Your-Ex Bed.
Next up: the Preggo Bed, of course,
and Birth Bed, fast proceeding
to Bed Where, Hungry as a Horse,
the Baby’s Always Feeding;
the Uninvited Toddler Bed;
the Bed-Turned-School-Kid’s Shelter
from Scary Dreams; the Dawdler Bed
for Parents With a Welter
of Duties, Deadlines, Dread and Doubt;
the Bed Where Counting Sheep’ll
Prove Zero Help When Teens Are Out
With Questionable People.
More beds will follow, naturally –
at times a true Niagara,
from Bed of Groans in Every Key
to Sex Bed II: Viagra.
The Menopausal Bed’s too hot;
the Slipped-Disc Bed’s too lumpy;
the Acid-Reflux Bed is not
a place to feel un-grumpy –
but soon the Grandkid Bed’s the thing,
As tiny Sams or Sydneys
dive in for books and snuggling
(and kid knees dent your kidneys) . . .
So join me, friends: think what’s in store
before they call the priest in!
The beds and beds and beds galore
that you will phone and feast in,
and sigh and roar and cry and snore
and make the two-backed beast in,
and spend (of course you know the score)
one-third your life, at least, in –
while trying vainly to ignore
the Bed You’ll Be Deceased in.