Dead Tired

Oversleeping’s not a crime.
In fact, I must admit that I’m
An advocate of sleeping late:
If dreams are streaming, work can wait.
Ostensibly, the reason for
My sloth is sleep: I need some more.
I wonder, though, if it’s because
I crave that lateful wakeful buzz,
The jolt that races through my veins
To galvanize my limbs and brains
The way that Dr. Frankenstein
Would do when he’d had too much wine
And got the urge to play a prank
On Igor. (Yes, the Doctor drank!
Why else would it occur to him
To build a bro from bits of Jim,
The late Great Nate, Expired Jay,
And other dudes who’d passed away?
That’s not what we call “sober” thinking.
That’s what comes of too much drinking
When you ought to be in bed:
“Let’s reeninanimate Dead Fred!
We’ll use my uncle’s castle lair–
My cousin stashed a bottle there!”)

…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten what
My point was when I started, but
It probably was much less frightening
Than creating life with lightning
Wired to cadavers’ necks…
Maybe it’s to do with sex?
I don’t know why my mind would go
From sex to making monsters, though.
I must be tired. If you please,
I think I’ll snag some extra Z’s.

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