I once knew a lady called Jane,
Who found writing poems a pain.
She took out her pen,
And tried to write when
All the fuses blew out in her brain.
Jane’s had her head disconnected,
Until all the electric’s been inspected.
So she lies on her recliner,
Free associating in E minor.
I wonder how her Unconscious’s directed?
Jane studied mirrors and magnets.
She’s always been well versed in gadgets.
But to do it to yourself,
Is not good for your health.
You need to pay Freud for some magic,
