The men, you see, they called us crazy.
And maybe they were right. And maybe not.
If they ever had to try to stuff their
Unmentionables into an hourglass,
Maybe they’d have gone a little
Ah, but they were big, strapping things.
And boy, they held on to those purse strings
Like we held on to the knives over their chests
At night so we could feel something.
So they took those feelings we had,
Or maybe we didn’t have, and called it
I wish they had thrown me into the asylum.
Maybe then someone would have told me
That my husband didn’t know it all.
Because I am a good mother
I am a fine wife, and I am a pious believer.
So I couldn’t be crazy, so he had to be
And the metal was colder than December,
Which wasn’t all that different from his touch.
But when the treatment started all I could think
Was that if this was what could cure hysteria,
I’d take the doctor’s word over my husband’s.
Because I hadn’t felt this, anything,
Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga