Song for the sleeping classes

Curtains of suburbia, switch off the square halos,
it is quarter past midnight. Tippy-toe
to your beds. The heart-shaped water bottle
is not shaped like a proper heart:
no harps of gristle,
or ventricles
like octopus-carved penny whistles.
You were dreaming of being brave.
Leave the bathroom door wide open, killer,
when you take a sleepy piss.