The pleasant dream is passing now,
but comfort’s here as I awake.
The players take a little bow,
but I don’t clap for their own sake.
For once I move or shift or turn,
the dream is done and they are gone,
and though my bladder may now burn,
I fight the urge to wake and yawn.
Goodbye good players of my dreams,
much more than phantasies you give,
for you’re the sweet and tender means
by which through death again I live.
Tale Told 