There are so many sharp-witted
Crazy people inside a ward,
Some are sedated, some are plain cuckoo,
Some are high functioning,
Some are drugged by anti-depressants
Or anti-psychotics, some are ablaze
In mouthing beautifully-crafted foul language.
The doctors go one bed to the next
Saying to the many Florences, the angels by bedside,
What injections to give, what drugs
To throw into the pan, and the crazy ones take them,
To become only a fraction of who they are,
The windmill limbs, the delusional mind,
The weather-wane heart, the kites they are,
And how colorless they become,
Extinguished by a synthetic sanity.