Raindrops weep, falling on my head.
And that means that I am not gonna move out of bed;
I won’t even sit,
’cause raindrops are falling; palling threads,
’neath sheets crawling.

Doors I should fix—seam with caulking oozed from gun.
Then again, more likely I’ll just seize some Ambien. . .
sleeping, fob the job.
Then wane, flop
will be my falling head—
don’t be calling.

Because I’ll be somno-
lent; dude, don’t text or tweet me;
I’ll asleep be.
I’ll doze so long ’cause nappiness—
schleps suck!—completes me.

Rain thoughts need stalling in my head.
And it will be seen above that head: a string of zed’s—
eyeing’s not for me.
So it is Morpheus’s domain
that is reigning.
As you can see:
Nodding’s flirting with me.

Brain stops, sleep’s calling, zonked, fine meds!
And that means stuff that shuts eyes, has ’nuff time to embed,
fire up reverie
inside the synapses of my brain,
which is waning.
I’ll catch some Z’s.
Not is scurrying, me.