"Without a Tune"

I’ve a "care co-ordinator", but she doesn’t care for me.

They’ll only offer Prozac now, having talked of CBT.

The mental health team would like me to stop writing poetry.

They feel it’s unconstructive just to moan.



To my family, I’m someone they must ring on Christmas Day.

The Quakers like me when I’m keeping quiet and wearing grey.

The Mormons might accept me if I gave coffee up – but, hey:

We’re heading for "comply to please them" zone.



I’m getting sick of dieting, and of counting calories -

am so fed-up with being advised that I must not have cheese.

You would think that being more than a Size Eight was some disease.

I’m not very good at not complaining.



It seems as though hardly anyone accepts me as I am.

I’ve pet birds, but do not push a mini human in a pram.

How can you claim to be "pro-life", and then stuff your face with ham?

I won’t say it’s sunny when it’s raining.



If I was more positive, it might make people like me more.

Never mind that I scream inside: Hypocrisy is a bore.

If I go back to office work, I might as well be a whore.

I’ll try to write a happy poem soon.



If I try hard to keep something clean, it is bound to soil.

Anything that I enjoy, someone will surely have to spoil.

I’ve expected friends of mine to stick by me, and be loyal.

Guess lyrics aren’t enough without a tune.