I keep saying to myself, stop writing;
but I keep on.
Oh mother dear, dear friends of mine...
As I lie in this ward, they are ogling, stalking me;
I’m afraid to doze off, they might pounce on me.
These silent, incurable lunatics around me.
There are psychos of all sorts;
Quiet ones, filthy ones,
Starved and beaten as part of their cure;
But the one thing I find strange;
I am sure they walk around quite undeterred,
And the food that is brought to me, These nuts devour without a word.
If only Dostoevsky, long deceased,
For his Death House Notes, renowned by all,
Were to see them as they stand. Banging their heads against the wall;
And if Gogol could be told
About our life of grief,
I am sure that even Gogol Would stare at this in utter disbelief.
This is real misery, my friends; But I spit on them, I do,
Those violent bitches around me. Ready to trick me, ready to kick me,
Standing with their tongues hanging out; By God, I haven’t the strength to shout.
Yesterday in Ward Seven, down the hall,
Eight orderlies fought to subdue just one.
“Let me at America”, he screamed and beat them black and blue;
I am not asking for fame or glory,
While I still have my health,
And my judgment is not yet impaired, I don’t know for how long - do you?
The woman who is chief physician here
Is a quiet sort, but her mind is not quite clear.
I tell her: “I am going mad.” She says: “Just wait a while my dear...”
I am waiting but I feel that time is running out;
I’ve forgotten the alphabet, you see;
As for grammar cases, I remember two, or three...
And therefore I say to I, to you, to thee.
Get him, take you, take I away,
Get me out of here today.