At certain times in a lady's head
comes the thought of the marital bed
in particular its surface cover
with little concern for the resident lover.
The heavy blankets have long marched off
to Eastern Europe and the terminal cough
instead an invader has smugly arrived
the ubiquitous DUVET, from misery derived.
Soon in place on its king size bed
(its password is TOG, an arbitrary figure)
You'll soon be deposed though easily led
as it tends to assume a terrible vigour.
In its gown of sacrificial whiteness
under a nocturnal snowdrift of heat
it conveys its message of restless tidings
from your troubled head to your raging feet.
With its little row of fiddly buttons
the cover requires two to change it
once skinned it lies quite helpless there
defying all efforts to rearrange it.
It starts to purr once covered up
ready for its sweet revenge
irresistible with its primal urge
as monumental as an ancient henge.
Its brother in arms is the mattress protector
shaking hands in a pact with the devil
and while your body tries its best to adjust
your thermostat goes from shit to bust.
But ladies' heads are not for turning
when the temperature's right for burning
so brave men all must welcome the night
and simply let the bed bugs bite.