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.








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