As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?
Lying spreadeagled under the moon
no tension there but an occasional moan,
Morning light will come too soon.
Resting on his laurels now
The leaves of which will flavour
His dream meals of tomorrow,
And the joys he has yet to savour.
And his throne will hide his tired eyes
He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,
The future cannot be explained
So slumber on, little prince,
With carefree snores and whines
What dreams may come, no one can tell,
But tonight your dreams are your design.