A Plea to Morpheus

I was given turmoiled dreamery  
of bold assassinations and murders,  
with a host of grosser obscenery  
on a stage of bloody beams and girders .  
 
Why send me dreams of these clotted horrors?  
 
Why not a scene of placid moon and stars  
for all we prone, depleted snorers  
instead of more frets than mile long guitars?  
 
Morpheus, please, give me sweet scenes of love  
where no one has bullets passing through heads,
and only angels drift down from above  
to make out with me on rococo beds.  
 
You know dreams with violent burnishings  
are no match for sex on fine furnishings.