Chorus
A master of Freudian seduction
Proposed, indeed, when not on bended knee
Her composure cleft with this injunction:
Analyst
Pray, enough ’bout Bob. How feelst thou…’bout me?
Chorus
She’d asked her oncologist
For a real good therapist.
Instead, what she got was this:
Analyst
Dr. Nachman here. How mayst I help thee?
Naïf
I’d like an appointment, please. My name’s Kate.
Analyst
Might I inquire, miss, what thine issue be?
Naïf
I wanna make sure that my head’s on straight.
Y’see, I think I’ve compartmentalized.
Analyst
What meanest thou, miss, by that turn of phrase?
Naïf
I plan on nursing, and I recognize
For me to show compassion in my gaze,
I need to make sure that my heart and head
Are connected so that I don’t chatter
About myself, ‘cuz the one in the bed?
What they’re feeling is what really matters.
Chorus
At that last, he was completely enthralled
And in love with her mind he’d deeply…falled.
At this juncture, ’tis germane
To explain via quatrain…
More precisely, septquatrain,
For four lines cannot contain
Ample, vibrant mise-en-scene
Sufficient to full explain
How much this heretofore urbane,
Unflappable chatelain
Had to struggle to abstain
While escorting this fair dame
Into his private, Freudian fane,
His psychoanalytic domain
Where, until now, he had reigned,
His heart free, but his mind chained
To the ramblings, some insane,
Some charming, some scatterbrained,
Of patients he’d entertained
Again, again and again,
‘Til the moment she laid claim,
Unabashed, unashamed,
To his black velvet terrain
That would never be the same
Once she’d splayed her silken mane
O’er his pillow while he feigned
Detachment.
When control he gained
Of his thundering heartbeat, tamed
By mental legerdemain,
So that he might present sane
Himself, not rattled, nor inane,
Settling then his lanky frame
And taking a deep breath, began…
Analyst
So, tell me all about your mother, miss.
