Every day you hear the wailings from the place behind the railings,
every night the sound of science gone astray,
as experimental therapies are plied behind the palings
(all your failings will be bleached and washed away).
And the chemical inferno is a wonder to behold
as it rages in the space behind your eyes
and you know your parents love you or they never would have sold
your possessions just to pay for this surprise.
Now the doctor comes at midnight as you lie in neon rest
lays a silent hand upon your sleeping head
lays a pill upon your tongue and lays a tongue upon your breast
as he enters you pretending you are dead.
And he calls his friends to witness that the deed was never done
and they take their turns, agree it must be so
for you're now a modern leper and a doctor must have fun
and the world outside is happy not to know.
If the money lasts forever then the cure will take as long
(unprofessional to rush - we must be sure)
but the day the coffer's empty is the day there's nothing wrong
with your mind or with your body. There's the door!
So you walk the streets disconsolate, your friends all look away
your parents moved, discreetly out of range
but there's solace in the pittance that the drunken fumblers pay,
and the enervating mantra - spare some change?