A Poem: Doggerel

The girl was only six years old

When a doctor said with glee

‘Your mother must be very proud!

To have a child so bright and sound.

Who never is afraid to ask

About the way the body works.

And why this needle and not that

And what these drops do

And what’s that?’

I’ve never heard such questions

Or such interest! Why you even asked

For details when we opened up your chest!’

(Though privately he did admit, that he found it rather tiring

To have to meet and treat a kid so unusually demanding.)

So the girl grew up believing in questioning and reasoning,

She never saw that analysing

Was actually quite paralysing.

Especially for those around her, too polite

To point it out, that what she had was really

No social skills.

She deconstructed everything

Re-presented

Took apart,

Challenged her companions and dissected every word.

Asked interminable questions

On motives, thoughts and feelings; making the mistake

Of thinking this was conversation.

But when her friends

And lovers, fell exhausted by the wayside,

She started in on what was left-

Her very lonely insides.

She picked and poked

Unpacked each joke, each dream and

Hope unrealised.

Applied reductive theory to unconscious thoughts

and feelings;

Indulged in dreary meditations

On sexual relations.

She pulled out hidden sentences of her inner soul,

Questioned every syllable of

Her motive, will and self.

Threw out all the ugly bits

That could not be understood.

Cleaned the blood and mystery

From the Ego and the Id.

Shook out her hidden psyche

All neat and clean cut lines

Hung it metaphorically on figurative clothes lines.

Stepped back with satisfaction

But too late realised

That anything worth having

Cannot be analysed.

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