Sweetly several of us tall and shadowed loom over your bed on your birthday to sing the Song of the Naked Sleeper, composer unknown.
You loaf of hairless malice. You swaggering fart. You plank of chapped flesh.
You swallowing void. You falconer's bane. You spelling bee deserter.
You uncertain beverage. You colony of curdled nerves. You ceaseless whine.
You filigreed hairbrush. You floating coin. You charred pupae.
You verbless declaration. You flat knuckled combiner of cancers. You customer of lust.
We take the pillow from under your head. It is choking with your death dreams. It belongs to us now.
