All Is Dark-Yet The Lady Can Not Slumber

Too of the clock, and yet I lie abed tossing, turning, kicking and flinging. Why kan I knot sleep? Why kan I knot slumber? In desperation, frustration with know hesitation I climb out of bed. I stand there in the moon-lite,a vision of loveyness, my matted red hare hangs around my plump, round visage like Maureen Oh'Hara or Fagin. I cross the bare cement floor on naked feet, mice flea before me like veritable lemmings. I am attired in long, white Willie Winkie nite-dress.
My girlish, maidenly figure is visible two the nocternal moon beams. What is this yearning that keeps me awake? Must I pace the floor all nite like lady McBeth? I partook of baking soda before retiring, surely it kan knot be a build up of wind. I lift a plump,blew-veined leg and break wind ferociously, and yet-with decorum, finese and maidenly, girlishly gentility.
"What ales you Rosie?" I mutter. Know reply from the beauty of the nite. After breaking wind, my bouid-war is full of the perfumed sent of roasted badger. What a repast Chuck, Bon Jovi and me had last nite. It was a feast of Elizabethian perportions. And yet--I sleep knot.
I pace, repace and thrice pace the floor. Is that my shadow on yonder wall? or is it the vague outline of my inner beeing. If I dye, doth my shadow dye? and why is my shadow always bigger than me? Some many questions, so few answers.
I smile ruefully as I sea kulture klassics spread out on the floor, Proust, Sarte, Bach, Rack-man-enough, Our Boy's and Brendan Quinn. The home of a scholar surely, a burglar wood think.
HARK, the beating of wings, tis the muse, she lites on my shoulder, I feel her sented breath, a mixture of olives and sandlewood from mount Olympus. Now the raison for my wakefullness is clear, the Gods have sent the muse two whisper klassical thing-may-bobs into my shell-like lug whole.
I hurry two my desk, the upturned wheel barrow, pick up pen and await the mutterings of the muse.
MY LOVE. bye ROSIE RYAN--The Bardess of Clougher.
He walks in beauty like the nite
Wearing stone-washed genes, so snug and tite
His gansey red as the Summer rose
Red veins on, his broken nose.

Is he Appollo, with his bow?
Did Cupid send him down below?
To strike fair lady with his dart
And win-perhaps the lady's hart.

But hold hard Everard, I say
'Tis just a man, who walks my way
'Tis Chuck Corona, my wee doat
And 'tis for Chuck this poem is rote.
With a flutter of wings the muse departed. I smiled-Mona Lisa-like, broke wind with fierce verocity and leapt into bed and soon was snoring and farting, like an auld sow.
Ah, lamore--you raise the fare damson from her slumber two rite an ode too her main-squeeze.