For you brain is on fire, the bedclothes conspire
Of usual slumber to plunder you
First the counterpane goes and uncovers your toes
Then the sheet slips demurely from under you.
Then the blanketing tickles; you feel like mixed pickles
So terribly sharp is the pricking.
And you're hot and you're cross and you tumble and toss
Till there's nothing twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the floor in a heap
And you pick them all up in a tangle
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines
To remain at its usual angle
Of usual slumber to plunder you
First the counterpane goes and uncovers your toes
Then the sheet slips demurely from under you.
Then the blanketing tickles; you feel like mixed pickles
So terribly sharp is the pricking.
And you're hot and you're cross and you tumble and toss
Till there's nothing twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the floor in a heap
And you pick them all up in a tangle
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines
To remain at its usual angle
—Lord Chancellor, Iolanthe
