beware the bed of flowers
that become a bed of nails
a book becomes a scorpion
when stories turn to tails
your balance becomes serpentine
how slippery the scales
it's hard to sleep
when troubled deep
upon a bed of nails
beware the den of leisure
that becomes a den of sin
your armor, once invincible
now peanut brittle thin
no angels dance upon your head
it's smaller than a pin
you're in the lair
of lions there
when in a den of sin
beware the horn of plenty
when the notes have petered out
the lips that kissed you gently
are now frozen in a pout
the rainbow has diminished
from the surface of the trout
the piper calls
you're paying paul
when notes have petered out
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