Falsely draped now, br In not so new br Bed hangings, br Of nondescript hue, br It solidly stands. br br The embroidered flowers br Seem sun-bleached. br And dusty from hours br Of afternoon light. br br Try as I might br I just could not imagine br A Queen, seen asleep br In this bed. br It has to be said br She would have to climb br High to reach even the base. br br Stool in place. br And, ornate satin br Ceiling looming above, br Leaning, I fear, br Towards the obsene, br She would bury herself br In this ancient bed. br br Curtains would then most br Surely be drawn br And come morning br The air would be frigidly dank br With rank smell br Of a four poster night. br br It would seem from prose br What disgraced the use br Of four posters were those dark br And often most secret br Deeds, which were posed br As clandestine truce. br br Attracting attention, br Opposed to correction, but br Being brought out, dusty now br And fiendishly exposed. br br Such details delight the public face br As we, grouped, now stand, br Grandly sanitised, and wise. br Widening our judgemental eyes. br br br Beds now are preferred br As embodiments of facelessness br Love, given only to lustiest br Twenty-first century pace. br .