Through soft sepia tones and a purple haze,
A Guitar God watches over me sleeping
(That is, when I use this time and place to sleep)
And guides me dreaming through a musical maze,
Following tendrils of heady notes creeping,
Hiking valleys of chords, and up octaves steep.
I keep a pillow over my eyes;
When I sleep, I like to feel the weight,
But I’m kept awake by gusty sighs
And noises that die so loud, so late.
The percussions somewhere directly above
Set the tempo for the night’s orchestral score,
And strums of giddy voices and thrumming vents
Swell and fall gracelessly like a shot-torn dove,
While the drunken sopranos scream themselves sore,
And we’re surrounded and flooded with sour scents.