Late at night, with sleep evading,
I lie on my back, counting sheep
The night ticking by, slowing fading,
All I want is a few hours of sleep,
But the morning is coming, evading

On my ceiling of textured plaster,
So bumpy in feel and yet alabaster,
Rough to touch, no pattern to be seen,
So much to look at, forget to sleep

Each lump unique, each rise and low,
Reminds me of upside down winter snow
Suddenly sheep are not what I need,
And as soon as my head is full of dreams,
The ear piercing, annoying alarm clock shrieks.