We’ve got to “take it back” they said,
But it was never gone;
Their own hearts had a lack, that led
Them on, and led them on.
The diagnosis they received
Was not by any doctor,
Though their complexion felt aggrieved—
Their mind was the concocter.
Don’t see a dermatologist
To try to fix your eye:
They thought it was their skin, but missed
The fact it was a stye.
“Don’t bother with the facts” they said,
We’ll hold a rally, march,
And as likeness attracts, they fed
On homeopathic starch.
They bought torches at Wal-mart for
A ritual display,
And let anger build to a roar,
Oh, it was quite a day.
High-fives went all around the crowd,
The atmosphere bewitching,
And self-congratulations loud—
But still their skin kept itching.
“We’ll have a cure to this discomfort
By drawing blood,” they said
“(But not our own). We’re numb for it,
And fevered in the head.
“What did that doctor know who said
It was in our own minds?”
And therefore many people bled
(Or so our study finds).
The country which they thought was lost
Had been there all the time,
But something like “their eyes were crossed”
Misled them into crime.
Alas, a doctor only can
Prescribe and diagnose,
But cannot satisfy a man
Who wants to be morose.
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