Oh it's fine to travel here and yon
For work or rest or play -
To Bombay, Beijing, Bruges, or Bonn.
A change of scene is good, they say.
But whatever the climate or the price
Or wherever I lay my head,
Neither a sleeping bag nor silk sheets entice
In comparison to my own dear bed.
A 5-star hotel offers no finer rest,
Than my mattress that fits me just right.
No pop star or royalty ever possessed,
Such worn soft old sheets that invite.
The down of my featherbed and comfy duvet,
Afford perfect rest for my bones.
My pillows are perfect. I know it's cliche -
But nothing compares to that bed of my own.
So while travel is fun and exciting to do,
More than a few days of it causes such dread,
Because no place on earth can ever renew
Like a night in my very own bed.