The quality of sleep is nightly pained.
It faileth roughly four nights out of seven
And gives me so much grief: It's a real test;
It testeth me and feeds on my mistakes.
'Tis feisty in the feistiest; it yet numbs
The stoned eunuch more than the stoned clown;
His letching shows the curse of temporary power,
The attitude of poorly tragedy,
Wherein doth spit the dreaded tears and things;
But sleep soars far above this letching way,
It is enshrined in the feathered wings,
It is an alleyway to God Himself
And rested souls deliver prayers to God
When sleep is baked with dream spice.