Batty

If somebody read me the script of my life,
I’d think they were nuts, keep my distance.
I’d pity their madness. I’d offer them rife,
and strongly misguided assistance.

I’d send them to doctors. I’d send them to priests.
I’d call up their family members.
I’d give them my reasons. I’d tout my beliefs.
I’d pray for their souls during vespers.

I’d cover their eyes when they’re trying to see,
‘cause seeing might pave way for dangers.
I’d make strident noises to jam up their ears,
fear they can’t tell loved ones from strangers.

I’d fix up their wording that felt wrong to me,
convinced that their spelling is awful.
I’d fear for their safety. I’d strongly agree
they should be kept busy and social.

My dearly beloved, I humbly confess
my outlook on life just got hazier,
and wish you’d consider, if only in jest,
your script might be markedly crazier.