Inventing a refined disease
afflicting all the human race,
he took away ideas of ease,
exposed us, left us in disgrace.
We’re ego, libido, and id,
with sundry drives—a warring beast—
while Superego keeps the lid
on crime, in principle, at least.
Like Oedipus, though, men would kill
the father-rival, marry Mom;
while girls—hysterical and shrill
Electras—loathe without a qualm
maternal flesh. We’re driftwood, brief
phenomena, tossed on the drink—
dark seas of lust, without relief.
To know yourself, go see a shrink.
What good ensues must be offset—
and soon—by spreading psychic stain;
you’re parted from your money, yet
those clever complexes remain.
Eschewing gods, we turn to Freud.
We might as well address the void.