Hanging over my head,
Past the edge of the bed,
A sword on a chain gently swings.
The dreams that it brings,
Of wars and such things,
Makes me glad when I wake I'm not dead.
I know what I've said
Makes me seem so ill-bred,
As do some of my wilder flings;
Though opprobrium clings
To the dragon’s rough wings,
He flies on wherever his fate may have led.