At the cafe tables, newspaper stands,
At the concerts, and on golf-courses,
Linger on the Psychological Cripples.
They come from abusive homes, deadbeat dads,
Who wish they didn’t have children dutifully call.
And mothers for whom every slight is a grand offense.
I have taken their hands for my doctors’ experiment,
Back to the laboratory at Lions’ Gate;
I’ve got a blender that I put them through.
It’s too bad they won’t be home for Christmas,
It’s too bad we must examine them; I get
Paid bimonthly to show them compassion.
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