Four in the Morning

I wish there were a club for insomniacs.
One feels so lonely lying here in bed.
Only neurosis comes when I relax,
to stack some extra worries on my head.

At night I always have so many bills!
Lots more than in the day. And I'm afraid
of war and of disease and minor ills;
I count the little loops on the brocade

and vainly dredge my deepest thoughts and worse
to find a happier scenario.
Would it be better to recite some verse?
By Willem Kloos perhaps? Good, here we go:

I weep for flowers stifled in the bud
and shriveled... I'll remember by and by.
I weep for love that's... something... in my blood
and for... What did make dear old Willem cry?

This late at night you're really on your own.
Your books are sleeping, weary from the fight.
The letterbox is sleeping, so's the phone.
And everyone's asleep this late at night,

and all the little kids in their pajamas,
and all the animals there in the zoo,
the tigers, rhinos, elephants and llamas
are sleeping and there's nothing you can do.

The owls are still awake, apparently,
but how on earth does one attract an owl?
And even if I had one here with me,
would it do more than sit and hoot and scowl?

I'm so awake, I'm oh-so-wide awake.
And for my heart that's so misunderstood.
That's it! Poor Willem loved to bellyache!
I wonder if it's late enough to get up now for good...