More Drug Humor (?)

Ode to Xanax

When I feel like a burned out village

Charred posts and cracked foundations

When my denizens are all raped and pillaged

And their slim necks cut by the axman . . .

Then do I turn to thee, oh Xanax

Goddess of immortal ennui

And though I still miss my ex

My aim’s getting better, you see.

Though I do not rise to the skies

Neither do I sink down to hell

If you’ll forgive the dull look in my eyes

I assure you that all will be well.

The grass may not be cut

Fallen branches may molder and rot

And the sink piled high with dishes but

I will not care a jot.

I will not weep at random

Nor fear to drive down streets

I will not shake in tandem

With my thunderous heartbeats.

I’ll drift away in a cloud of grey

And I’ll look down on the earth

And instead of sobbing I’ll ballet

Around the house of mirth.

Oh, Xanax, savior, guardian true

Let’s move to a new locale

Where perhaps I will your daughter woo

--Lexapro, you femme fatale.