Repression

Our race is ruled by the function'ly mad,

Maybe that was the key to our success,

The death of the Neanderthals was bad,

Perhaps they lacked our pressured wild duress.


Within the souls of some of us is fear,

A sense we might be mad as a hatter,

We escape that sense with logic that's clear,

With telling tales to persuade and flatter.


In school our compensations win awards,

In high-level jobs we're ubiquitous,

We're great at turning ploughshares into

swords,

In our souls is something iniquitous.


The problem's not that we're partly crazy,

It's that we lie: we make the truth hazy.



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