She is a bit eccentric, and a nice-natured lady,
Dreaming of space or time ships,
And goblins with severtyeight different toes,
But, when all is finally done and snipped,
The party line she tows.
At predetermined intervals she visits me, like a woman's monthly woes.
Making sure that the child inside of me, often bleeds and never grows.
"You've had your chance, to burst buds in freedom", so her teacher says.
"This is for your own prudent protection, for the rest of all your days."
It seems to her a wise precaution, to nip the peaks and tuck the lows.
Because it’s at an expert's inspection, somebody who much better knows -
Officious guardians of convention, who society's primitive fear allays.
It is for us a most difficult sentence, because ours are not their ways.
Each time she arrives, how I try and I scheme to prove myself pristinely sane.
Yet all she probably sees is that chequered history, the hideous,
unrelenting stain.
Her lukewarm purpose melts the ice that I hold to the swollen wound in my
head.
It always seems to me that too little and yet at the same time, too much,
was said.
That harsh, baseless and unyielding verdict, that blemish against my name -
When she leaves, I am always disappointed: same picture in the same frame.
I do my best to affirm my resolution, how many important things I've read.
Yet afterwards I feel it was pointless, I may as well have just stayed in bed.
She says it’s a past of misdirection, for whom a caring judgement bell tolls.
She says its just a matter of chemistry, there's no such things as souls.
She thinks that its a better destiny, the one in which our spirit, drooling, lulls.
She thinks winds can quickly change, there's no telling which way our mind
blows.
She is a bit eccentric, and a nice-natured lady,
Dreaming of space or time ships,
And vampires with seventy eight different souls.
But, when all is finally done and snipped,
The party line she's sold.