Based on "The More Loving One" by W.H. Auden

Looking down at the bed, I know quite well 

That, for all it cares, I can go to hell, 

Abject indifference is the least 

We have to dread from comforters creased.  

How should I like it were the bed 

so tightly made, 

quarters bouncing like an army brigade? 

If equal method cannot be, 

Let the tidier one be me.  

Abhorrer as I think I am, of bedclothes left ascrunch,

I cannot, now that it’s not a coiled bunch, 

Say I’ve thought of it since lunch.  

Were my mate to make the bed with predilection, 

I would delight much more in that surprise erection, 

And enjoy its firmness noon or night, 

Though I’m still inclined to shut off the light.