Insomnia, my dear.
Oh! Don’t you bother.
These last nights, the air is so dead,
Musty, hot the air is so dead.
I woke up at midnight
And washed my face:
The cold woke me up at last.
Insomnia, my dear;
Why do you think I am awake?
I must have been dreaming, though-
See, foolish me,
I thought I was alone!
But you were in bed,
Weren’t you?
I woke up-
Mr. Benson was ill, perhaps,
And he was moaning into the night.
O, and his wife too grieved.
But, you see, I must have been dreaming-
Isn’t his wife away?
O, didn’t I say
I was insomniac!
But I would like to sleep.
3/4/2001, Calcutta-63