My Life in Pajamas

To lounge or not to lounge: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the house to enjoy
The silks & flannels of domestic fortune,
Or to dress up against the tide of lassitude,
And by opposing choose Eros? Tie dye: to sleep;
No more; and by a slip to say we live
The heart-break of the thousand thread-count sheets
That flesh wants next to, ’tis that consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To buy, for sleep;
To sleep? Perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that daze of babes what sleep may come
When we have ruffled all the fine feathers down,
Must give us rest? There’s the connect
That makes mockery of such short sleep;
For who would bear the pains and scars of birth,
The oppressed breast, that proud mom’s superbity,
The pangs of des’prate love, the spouse delayed,
The near silence of Erato and the spurns
That patient husband of the sleepless takes,
When he himself might his reverie make
With a spare Ambien? Who would bundles bear,
To wipe and clean under a teary child,
But that the dread of no heir after death,
The undisclos’d revelry from whose life
No prodigy proclaims, quiets the mom
And makes her rather love those ills she has
Than fly to locales where Prada reigns.
Thus Hera does make fam’ly of us all;
And thus the pallid hue of exhaustion
Is covered o’er with the gold glow of Eos,
And strategies of great sheets do fail
To wit: regard the son who sleeps sweetly,
And lose the name of Hypnos. — Soft you now!
The fair Erato! Muse, in thy petition
Be all my dark circles forgott’n.