Title: The Bicycle Song When you're lying awake With a dismal headache And repose is taboo'd by anxiety I concede you may use Any language you choose To indulge in without impropriety For your brain is on fire, Your bedclothes conspire Of usual slumber to plunder you First your counterpane goes And uncovers your toes Then your sheet slips demurely from under you. Your blanketing tickles You feel like mixed pickles So terribly sharp is the pricking, And you're hot and you're cross, And you tumble and toss Till there's nothing twixt you and the ticking, Then the bedclothes all creep To the ground in a heap And you pick'em all up in a tangle, Next your pillow resigns And politely declines To remain at its usual angle, Well, you get some repose In the form of a doze With hot eyeballs and head ever aching But your slumbering teems With such horrible dreams That you'd very much better be waking. . . -"The Bicycle Song" *Iolanthe* W.S. Gilbert