Is this a pondered-over scheme to drive me mental,
part of some theory that’s long and continental?
My mind’s a home. D’you have the licence to evict?
There is no limit to what people contradict.
Must I be you, become you, like those Method actors?
Or may I play myself, regarding natural factors?
Must I conclude and walk and feel how you’d predict?
There is no limit to what people contradict.
This bit of stage is mine and I am not your stooge,
not here to be bamboozled by your subterfuge.
Although we all live in the worlds our hearts depict,
there is no limit to what people contradict.
I love someone. You answer, “No, you don’t, oh no!”
I scream my heart’s in bits and you just scoff as though
you’ve captained submarines through where my lungs constrict.
There is no limit to what people contradict.
Like poltergeists who’ll hide my keys in far-flung parts
to make me think that’s where I left them from the start,
you leave your little traps around and hope I’m tricked.
There is no limit to what people contradict.
