They didn\'t say its name
In fact they have never spoken
Of the sickness they were all certain
Was the thing which made her broken
Broken like a polluted sky
On a summer day with bright blue lie
Sick like the victim’s plea
As she falls from grace on bended knee
In sterile corridor there was a whisper
From white coated learn-ed men
They had dealt with her kind before
Tempted when her smile crept in
Creeping like a locker room leech
Seeking something out of reach
Sucking blood to cure disease
Sickness cured the sick to please
And so she drew upon her face
A picture full of intriguing grace
She realised the only way sickness to beat
Was to simply give way and admit defeat
Defeated like the men in white coats?
Or defeated like the ballon that floats?
Far from where the crowd is mad
And there’s no room for good or bad