As I lie on a sinking bed

The whirling is mystifyingly soothing

As I lie on a sinking bed

The ends are coming up

And I feel the cold, cold floor

Enveloped in cushions that are bruising

As my mind searches to be fed

From a non-existent memory cup

And The bed has lost its core

There is nothing left but a slow oozing

The air has bled

Mr Deville I’m ready for my close-up

There is nothing left to restore