What to wear in bed’s a mystery.
The cat has died and will not keep me warm
Where is my love who wrote my history?
Where the comforts which like bees did swarm?
When with a lover, skin is quite enough
But now alone I feel the need for gowns
My little skin is tender and less tough
And on my face I wear ambiguous frowns
Still this small problem should not worry me
As on my bed I dream indignantly
For who will be and who is not to be?
I answer God with polite yet piercing plea
Still clothing helps to comfort my dark pain
But no-one knows, as all they see is vain
How my heart sings 