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December 31st 2010 print

Melinda Smith

Song of the anti-depressant

 I’ve been slaving and behaving; I’ve been scrimping, I’ve been saving

but I never get a moment to enjoy the peace I’m craving

and the tunnel that I’m crawling through gets longer by the day

so I’m thinking—bar the drinking—there must be a better way.

Is it better? Is it better to become a good forgetter?

Is it peaceful? Is it calm? Will it fix me like a charm?

Well, I never! Well, I never—what a dandy little pill!

What a soother, what a wonder! What? Another? Yes, I will.

Why, there’s really nothing to this! Problem solved! Although … although …

I do feel a little sheepish I’m the very last to know.

All you ladies should have mentioned what was propping up your grins;

what was keeping you from killing sprees and other deadly sins.

When I think that half the mums I know are gobbling these down

and the other half are paddling gamely but about to drown

it’s surprising and amazing and a little bit bizarre

that the little pills that saved me are as secret as they are.