Sleepless in Sittingbourne

In my little terraced house in a little terraced street, 

I hear the clod-hopping footsteps of heavy-footed feet
stomp in the corridor as I retire to bed;
My mind a whir and saturated with dread.

Just a thin piece of paper separates my bed frame from theirs,
As I hear them bicker and spit on the way up the stairs.
Slumped and sloven, they cut the ambiance with a knife,
The bellowing husband along with his petulant wife.

My shutters rattle, my window panes shake
As the inconsiderate son’s drum and bass snakes
through a crevice, and sneaks in my room
Terrifying and incensing with an all-surrounding boom.

I bury my head in an underfilled duck pillow,
praying energetically that the wallow
will be muffled, under my ruffled sheets,
As any hope for rest disappears and fleets.

I at last fall to slumber, dreaming of life before they came,
Before my sanity was dragged out, shot and left lame.
But my self-enclosed tranquility pops, and is startled and stirred
As a dawn chorus of bawling toddlers and birds breaks out in the rising sun
As sleep-deprived, my weary legs give up and go numb.

Still dark, I peer with stuck eyelids into the blackness of my room,
begging to pacify the noises and keep them schtum
So I can sleep, not sleep walk en route to the office
while tiredness pours and seeps from every orifice.

Like a ninja in the night, I slip out in guise in a grey gown and slippers.
Snip goes my scissors
as I cut off their power,
As desperate just for another hour
Of undisturbed sleep
I return satisfied to resume counting sheep.


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