In bed, Seeking more comfort, She launched a surprise attack Along my reclining nighttime defense line, Probing for weakness... My weary rump forces too weak to repel her. And, never abiding by the laws imposed To protect anatomical tenderness, She struck with all she had, Forcing me to the cliffs of Serta, To the edges of bedding. And, I, in the fog of war, moaned, "What are you doing?", Hoping to appeal to her better angels And stem the assault. But mercy to her was foreign coin... And with a final push I landed on the floor, Buffered by only a Bokhara, A pair of wool socks And my slippers.