The Dreaming Cure

I wasn’t making sense, so my friends said
I should lie down and try the dreaming cure,
And that worked well, but it could not endure:
When I woke up, the daisies had turned red
And bloody, while the roses that were dead
Were marching now. I had been immature,
And filled my days with lust, hot and impure.
Dreams disarmed us. I should have stayed in bed.

My disappointed friends cried, “Give us back
The old disease!” but though I’ve tried my best
It won’t return. I must have failed the test,
I must have given up. The night was black,
And lust prevailed, sharp as a heart attack,
Thorough and final, underpinned by zest.