Cowboy Psychiatry

He’s a man of few words when he wants to be And his silence can rival the Sphinx, But be spins a good yarn during therapy With his analyst pouring the drinks. His obsession with fishing’s a mania, Always dying to dangle the bait. His aversion to marriage, a phobia, His fiancée will just have to wait. It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke In some Freudian home on the range. Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch, I don’t think he’s likely to change. He’s obsessive compulsive habitually In matters to which he is drawn, And he’s down at the topless bar ritually, Unless there’s a football game on. He’s conflicted about schizophrenia, Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread. He exhibits selective amnesia, And he’s passive aggressive in bed. It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull, And those inkblots are all kind of strange. He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt. I don’t think he’s likely to change. Regardless his problems, He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.