Lament of the Wife of a Psychoanalyst

I NEVER get mad: I get hostile;
1 never feel sad: I’m depressed.
If I sew or I knit and enjoy it a bit,
I’m not handy — I’m merely obsessed.
I never regret — I feel guilty,
And if I should vacuum the hall,
Wash the woodwork and such, and not mind it too much,
Am I tidy? Compulsive is all.
If I can’t choose a fiat. I have conflicts,
With ambivalent feelings toward net.
I never get worried or nervous or hurried:
Anxiety— that’s what I get.
If I’m happy, I must be euphoric;
If I go to the Stork Club or Hit/.
And have a good time making puns or a rhyme,
I’m a manic, or maybe a schiz.
If I tell you you’re right, I’m submissive,
Repressing aggressiveness, too.
And when I disagree, I’m defensive, you see,
And projecting my symptoms on you.
I love you, but that’s just transference
With Oedipus rearing his head.
My breathing asthmatic is psychosomatic,
A fear of exclaiming “Drop dead!”
I’m not lonely, I’m simply dependent.
My dog has no fleas, just a tic.
So if I seem a cad, never mind — just be glad
That I’m not a stinker — I’m sick.