Never tell psychiatrist the truth,
No more than offer acid to a narc;
The flaming sword within his desk craves use;
You must pass soul fully clothed, he hates things stark.
And if he asks in riddle who you are,
You must lie as dead as paper-thin straight line;
Assume a name--say, one you took at birth--
And pretend you only know of space and time.
And if you hear the door behind you lock,
Indulge each nurse, they know not what they do.
Give clockwork psyches no excuse for shock;
And speak only when audibly spoken to.
For the raving god of Bedlam loves odd stones;
Trust Him, though all the world outside is mad.
His logos still wells up from deepest springs,
Proof from law, or tinpot Jah, or Siggy's dad.
And recollect before you take advice
From anyone in white, how seeming warm,
That one man's hell's another's paradise;
And Satan most at home in uniform.
So never tell psychiatrist the truth,
Nor start at flash of fang, or hound-like bark;
For salts and Styx and stones may break no bones,
But every word can leave a fatal mark.
-- Stephen K. Roney