「歌曲」Lord Chancellor's Nightmare Song-Todd Rundgren

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache,
And repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose
To indulge in, without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire
Of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes, and uncovers your toes,
And your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles—
So terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss
Till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap,
And you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines
To remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze,
With hot eye-balls and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams
That you'd very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel,
And tossing about in a steamer from Harwich—
Which is something between a large bathing machine
And a very small second-class carriage—
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat)
To a party of friends and relations—
They're a ravenous horde—and they all came on board
At Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney
(Who started that morning from Devon);
He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised
When he tells you he's only eleven.
Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad
(By the bye, the ship's now a four-wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names
When you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand,
And you find you're as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks),
Crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too—
Which they've somehow or other invested in—
And he's telling the tars all the particulars
Of a company he's interested in—
It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices
All goods from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors), by treating retailers
As though they were all vegetables—
You get off at the station, and pass through a door
To a third-class carriage you share
With a gentleman guilty of asking a price
For a "Standard" I can't quite declare.
And you think you're in Paddington, but you're in Hades,
And you're bound to a place where the weather is rough,
And you're singing a song, and you're playing a game,
And you're wearing a hat that is far too small,
And you're having a bath in a bath that is full
Of hot water and soap and a sponge and a brush,
And you're drying yourself with a towel that's too short,
And you're combing your hair with a brush that's too sharp,
And you're putting on boots that are far too tight,
And you're tying a tie that's too short for your neck,
And you're buttoning a coat that's too small for your chest,
And you're squeezing a hat that's too small for your head—
And you're waking up wishing that you were dead—
And you're wishing that you were in bed instead—
And you're wondering whether you'll ever get well—
And you're feeling that you're in a sort of a hell—
And you're thinking that you're in a state of despair—
And you're wishing that you were somewhere else—
And you're wondering if you'll ever get out of this place—
And you're feeling that you're in a terrible mess—
And you're hoping that you'll soon be released from this stress—
And you're praying that you'll soon be released from this distress—
And you're thinking that you're in a terrible state—
And you're wishing that you were dead—and you are!