It’s best if you retreat between the sheets,
build quilted walls to shield you from the day;
the featherbed your castle, your retreat:
solitude’s fortress, keeping life at bay.
Just give me books, a duvet, and I’ll lay
here, safe from wars and wintery defeats,
wrapped up in Rome’s campaigns, cradled by Keats,
the pillowed pages dreaming cares away.
Outside, there’s conflict, endless civil strife
the weather’s shit, the country is a mess;
I know I should go out and combat life,
but I’m hungover, and I must confess:
I think it’s safer lying here in bed,
where all the battles fought are in my head.