Compassion Fatigue
To make a bed, you must tighten your hold,
Tuck in the corners and tend to the fold,
Smooth out the blankets and straighten the line.
Like a geisha serving up two cups of wine,
She may promise her laughter is free,
But what’s in it for me?
To find the truth, you should look toward the light;
Make a solemn intention to practice what’s right.
If the lady’s a mystic, you must understand,
She’s out on the prowl for a gullible man.
She'll take a tarot crystal yoga point of view,
But what’s in it for you?
To find my way, I just opened my eyes,
Tossed back the covers, dismissed the disguise.
Gold diggers dangle their fishnet allure,
And sirens do carnival tricks down the shore.
There may be seven wonders left to see,
But what’s in it for me?
To break a bed, you just lighten the load,
Turn down the covers and take up the road.
If sincerity danced on the head of a pin,
There’d be many times more than what she had within.
Compassion fatigue was her balm for my PTSD.
What was in it for me?
What was ever in it for me?
She held my hand till the money ran out.
Then she did.
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