Loungeroom Royalty

Who belongs to those tip toes

creeping so silently through the house?

Rousing us sleeping buddhas, loungeroom royalty

lost in a world of limbs and mattresses.

Who is that blowing the bushman’s diamond

on the fire that never dies?

There is no need my elusive messenger,

we are each warm to the bone and then some.

Please do not ask my pillow

to get up and make coffee, not just yet.

I would like to lie a while longer,

listening to the blankets breathing.

They tell me secrets.

They whisper sweet nothings in my ear as I sleep.

I never quite catch what they are saying,

they turn and hush with a fright

when they see my day mind wants to know,

and in that very moment our sneaky little friend

appears to pull the curtains open.

Well, if you insist on making the morning sound,

go wake the giants slumbering in the back yard,

it’s their turn to make us breakfast.

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