Sleeping in a narrow bed, no room to turn no room to spread. For my old, much wider, bed I yearn. As night carries on, it feels sma- ller and sm- al- ler turning sleep into some kind of torture.
The conceit here is fairly obvious, but the idea amused me: the poem is forced into a narrow format for the most part, with the “smaller and smaller” section becoming smaller and smaller. If it’s not displayed in a monospace font then the line lengths don’t work as well, which is mildly annoying.