The crocodile tears potion
Failed to create
A chink into insomnia’s armor
That had been gripping,
Like a shell to heavy for a skinny turtle to carry,
The one residence
(out of Montreal’s 365,1 square kilometers)
Where the banished Maltese noble lady took residence.

Lying, her eyes closed, for an hour and a half
On the Victorian sofa did not help and,
Across hundreds of miles away,
A flock of black swans,
(the featured birds on her coat of arms)
Were getting wrestless.

Some insignificant troubadour suggested that
Massenet’s “Meditation” could better help,
But this year’s hardships took their toll.

A more powerful wizardry
Was needed to solve the ordeal,
One that could rearrange each of the flying swans
According to the notes forming an excerpt
From one of Bach’s harpsichord concertos.