Rorsach made a fortune from blots
He says people see their own mind in inkspots.
In such secretive ways
Psychologists play.
Like stories they all have their plots.
It seems they need some method to find
What goes on at the back of our minds.
Day dreams and reverie
Give them a measure of
That which keeps us in a bind.
Or maybe they cannot converse
Except in some slantwise obverse
Of talking the normal way
Even though it’s for pay.
Who knows what is better or worse?
How my heart sings 