If I lay down now I might think I’m dead

Here is my attempt at a Gothic poem. As per usual it is CC: BY-SA, so share and enjoy!

I.

The night is cool, the night is calm,
the streets bereft of life.
In every house, in every home
Sleep now claims its tithe.

But one narrow window
bleeds with light;
there two-score candles
oppose the night.
It is the window
of a tired young girl,
who is much too frightened
to let dreams unfurl.

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Don’t accept candy from a dog with a pet horse, wearing a hat made of cheese.

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Hello, my name is Johnny: 1–4

This poem is entirely the result of sleeplessness during a visit to London. I had several Spanish people staying in the same room as I at the hostel, and it seems that the Spanish are physically incapable of respecting when other people want to sleep. On top of that, they snored incessantly. Thus, I had plenty of time thinking up these. Interestingly, perhaps, the Spanish stayed for exactly four nights, whereupon they were replaced with a group of Maltese ladies, who didn’t even pretend to be quiet. Something is wrong with young people from the Mediterranean.

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