A Fevered Mind

In the wee, wee hours when all is still You can feel your blood athrill When you hear the ghostly sounds Of whispered words and baying hounds. Who is it that speaks so low That the distant mooing of a cow Sounds like the plaintive cry of a soul Echoing from the depths of an abyssal hole? You give a silent, terror-stricken scream! Are you in a surrealist dream? Or is it due to the daily grind You’re left with only a fevered mind? The sounds you hear at the midnight hour Your sanity will neither make nor mar, For there’s enough cause for you to sorrow - Your eyes will never, ever see a morrow!