Spotlight

— Harry Lafnear

I like being studied. I like being studied.
I have a medical curiosity,
And I have this need to be
What my psychiatrist sees.
Oh, I like being studied.

The other day, I went to the doc.
He was just too cool in that long, white frock.
I told him about my pineal gland.
I said “listen, doc, it’s gotten way out of hand.
Deep into the future, that’s what I see,
And y’know lately it’s kinda been bothering me.”
He poked and he prodded
From my tongue to my balls,
Then he slipped away quietly
To make some phone calls.
(I like being studied.)

Good ol’ doc sent me to the shrink.
I claimed his couch and we started to link.
The purest in symbiotic scrutiny:
I lie to him, and he lies to me.
“Yes, Mother’s a bitch. Yes, Father’s a bore.”
But when the hour is up, we both know the score:
Two hundred bucks on my way out the door . . .
“See ya next week?”
Oh yeah! We both want some more.
’Cuz we’re being studied.

But today I got a ring
So I picked up the phone:
It’s those insurance geeks!
God, I wish they’d leave me alone—
“You used my lifetime allowance by age forty-one.
We want our card back:
Today, man! You’re done
Being studied.”

So now I’m a poet—
Less out-of-pocket expense—
Just a ham on a cord,
Though I mean no offense.
I just want to open your ears
And dip your brains in my song
And extract the reaction
Before you feel anything’s wrong.

When the mic has gone dead
And I swim from the stage
I’ll skinny-dip in your blankness,
Wade through your love,
Drink your rage.
It’s the spotlight sickness,
Nothing poetically new.
I just like being studied.
How about you?

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