They in the chair have quite a few degrees;
a fancy desk, a shimmering plaque.
With these degrees we are convinced to
Trust them with our secrets, to see our cracks.
A slip to sign, a prescription to fill.
Giving note after note to ensure we
are under the control of little pills,
so our mind won’t plague the community.
We’re labeled like toys and all may see
The supposed madmen we are to be.
We are not insane, our minds are free.
The way to be normal is to change me.
I wish not to conform, exact to my peer.
‘Tis why it’s great, we’re all mad here.