The hour grows late I sit stubborn and somnolent,

it is time that decent folk took to their beds.

For this is the hour of the witch and the deviant,

when down twisted paths one's mind might be led.

But there is much left to do and dreams to be dreamt,

loves to be loved and songs to be sung.

And no time to fritter on the folly of rest,

such life to be lived before the morn bell is rung.

And yet the mind slows and the fingers they slur,

and soon the frail flesh will insist on its due.

And thoughts in intractable tempest will blur,

and I'll lie and I'll burn until day dawns anew.