Random Rules

A tailor-made coffin

Your eyes begin to tire.

Your head sits on this greasy pillow

[Your hair is weeping, little]

Should I have fought?

Room service knocks

[interrupts the tacit thoughts]

There was so much happiness

Behind the doors of that mini-bar

How do things get this far

To a point where to sleep is to lie

And to lay is to die.

Only years will mar

Your weeping hair

And your complexion

[apart from the fact that you're dead]

Never that fair