Lullaby

Lullaby

These bloody fingers scratch and scratch
At the bloody door o’ sleep
Feeling the call of home within—
Where fireplace and wholesome supp
Awaits every starving child
But me, whose bloody scratching draws
The barbéd flicks of a wicked switch
Which sweeps dreams out
Into the gritted haunts of day
Raining broken glass from
White and shining sky
That digs its diamond fingers
Right in my bloody eyes.