Ode to My Blanket

The cold wind creeps beneath the sill
And through the curtain breaks,
The morning light now mocks the chill
That o'er my moustache rakes.

Then you pick up from some odd dream
Of pleasant company,
And twirling round my limbs would seem
To be that fantasy.

The warmth of ninety-eight degrees
Of passion on my breast,
Could I be ever more at ease
With such a one to rest?

So finally, I hoarsely call
My waking vision's name,
But you, the living's warmer pall,
Won't answer for the same.