The bed you are lying in is a fat check. We will scrap it, sell it before the end of the year, this thing, With its fat, cherry red posts, wingtips, And a headboard, big as a harbor. Its head is brown. Its sheets are blue. It holds within it The outings, the courtings of lovers Who hold their breath until their necks turn blue. It holds within it, you, You who love me like a daughter, though Your skin is green, and your cheeks are blue. Five times you came down with it and five times They tried to cut it off at the root. Your heart still beats. Five times too few. By the end, we will scrap this bed. It is far too large to keep, this thing, With its fat, cherry red posts, wingtips, And a headboard, big as a harbor. Its head is brown. Its sheets are blue. Yes, by the end we will have to scrap this bed. And scrap you with it, too.