Corncrake Poem by Cabaline xxx

In the pitch dark,
I close my eyes.
My weary head supported,
by my pillow,
my mind aching for sleep.

Then it starts.

That scraping sound.
That repetitive, scraping sound.
Similar to a frogs croak,
or someone running their thumb,
up and down a comb.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Still audible,
through two pillows and a duvet.
This merciless creature,
ignores my pleas for silence,
and arrogantly continues,
to sing noise.
Does it not also require sleep?
-Or at least, have respect,
for those that do?

As I lie in bed,
getting increasingly frustrated,
it is no surprise to me,
that these beasts are rare.
It does surprise me,
that a public driven to madness,
(by sleep deprivation) ,
hasn't wiped them out,
altogether!