I’ve a “care co-ordinator”,
but she doesn’t care for me.
They’ll only offer Prozac
now, having talked of CBT.
The mental health team would
like me to stop writing poetry.
They feel it’s unconstructive
just to moan.
To my family, I’m someone
they must ring on Christmas Day.
The Quakers like me when I’m
keeping quiet and wearing grey.
The Mormons might accept me if
I gave coffee up – but, hey:
We’re heading for “comply
to please them” zone.
I’m getting sick of dieting,
and of counting calories.
I’m so fed-up with being
informed that I must not have cheese.
You would think that being more
than a Size Eight was some disease.
I’m not very good at not complaining.
It seems as though hardly anyone
accepts me as I am.
I’ve pet birds, but do
not push a mini human in a pram.
How can you claim to be “pro-life”,
and then stuff your face with ham?
I won’t say it’s
sunny when it’s raining.
If I was more positive, it might make people like me more.
Never mind that I scream inside:
Hypocrisy is a bore.
If I go back to office work,
I might as well be a whore.
I’ll try to write a happy
If I try hard to keep something
clean, it is bound to soil.
Anything that I enjoy, someone
will surely have to spoil.
I’ve expected friends of
mine to stick by me, and be loyal.
Guess lyrics aren’t enough
without a tune.