No matter how convincingly comfortable the bed,
The vile image of the bogeyman fills your whirring head

As the impending night comes like the rushing tide,
Within false comfort of woolen blanket do you hide.

You call out to the darkness, for the nonexistent help,
Reach out, venture cautiously, longing to be safely held.

When someone comes to find your lonely, searching hand,
It is the same; the one who made the bogeyman.

Together, confidently, under the bed do you look.
Search each and every cranny, every single nook.

And when that friendly hand of sweet deceit takes leave,
In fear, again, does your whole being begin to heave.

But to the inescapable grasp of sleep do you fall.
Then, the hideous monster, object of fear, out it crawls.

Stealthily crouches over you, gently sneaks beside you,
Delicately does it slide beneath wool that covers you.

He keeps you quietly safe from those bedbugs at night,
Those vicious, little ones that come past bedtime, that bite.

And though the world is full of bogeymen lying under beds,
Some can do you harm,
While others keep you safe from the world's dreads.

And though there can be hopelessness at countless times
There's always a light to cast onto the shadows, the lies