Id Submits to Ego

There's a certain flavor of psychosis,
Of strawberry wine, of
Grapples and oranges.
Ascertaining this quality,
This condiment of hubris,
By men in white coattails
And brown labcoats in dark mire,
An exercise in Pyrrhicism,
With one's swelled head against the wall.

They guarantee you paradise in spades,
And wine tastings in Bordeaux,
But where is the bellboy?
"Oh Romeo," and "Oh Antoinette,"
"Wherever are we now?"
While the man in the ballcap
Shoves you down to your knees
And makes you snuff it.

So we divvy out our grudges
In teaspoons and kettledrums,
Against the humdrum of the silence;
A growing silence between the two of us,
And the threes and the fives and the sixes-
All grow gray and silent.
All grow still in this forest of the dead.