All That Is Left Of Me

All that is left in my head,

Is this stream of song,

This endless melody.

There are shadowy words which cannot be said

Unless they are part of the liturgy,

The meaningless chant I repeat all day long,

And the songs are from somebody's childhood,

Though I'm not really sure it was mine.

They sometimes seem rude, sometimes silly,

And sometimes they're wobbly  and wrong.

But most have an inherent structure

And exist in a world of their own,

And once I begin them, I sing them

And feel that I'm not quite alone,

As if there's a woman inside me,

That wishes to maintain some order

Who bustles about and trots these things out

Always wanting someone to applaud her.

There are only daft songs in my head

And sometimes I sing them in bed

And wake up the others, who scream.

And the tunes are so pretty

The words are so witty, 

I sometimes believe it's a dream.

But the night nurse bursts in and makes nightmares,

And the songs become sorrowful sobbing,

And the tunes become minor, descending

Into treacle black fear, never ending,

That I am quite mad and I'm dying;

And my mind won't come right,

Till my crying, 

Turns once again into singing.