The Bedsheet Irony

By bedtime,
The winter's chill,
Has infiltrated,
Every inch of the house.
As flesh touches,
Icy sheets,
Strained words ring out,
It's cold,
It's Cold,
IT'S COLD,
Implying a great desire,
Not to suffer that woe.
But soon warmth comes,
And so too the morning.
Now a different story,
Fills the frosty air,
No, No, NO,
I don't want to get up,
Is quietly heard,
As waves of heat,
From toasty bedsheets,
Continually caress,
The pampered body.
It's the bedsheet irony.

© 02/01/98 by David L. Henkel

Many thanks to the following:

Doc Wilson's Ragtime Midi Files 
(music)

for their music support!  

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