How quickly now my brain-fogged mind
reaches saturation point
decides it’s had enough
and goes on strike.
Too soon, too soon it closes down,
too soon the eyes begin to ache
then give up the fight.
I used to have a life.
I never was a sprinter, not even as a child,
but yet I had a life.
I trained as a dancer, and worked to pay my way;
and later on I left home and danced upon the stage.
Then I got married, and had a bunch of children,
One, two, three; and, still only 21,
I did the things that mothers do, cleaned the house,
the school run, helped my husband with his work,
went to church, taught sunday School, camping with the kids.
Life was very busy.
I took my dogs for long walks up into the hills,
and life was hard but, nonetheless,
I coped as much as anyone and maybe more than some,
and never did I guess, not even for a minute,
that one day soon my life would end,
well, life as I knew it.
Who could have known a bout of flu, or something very like it,
would lay me so low? Would take away my freedom,
and leave me a prisoner of this all too solid flesh?
To be reduced to this! A dessicated vegetable
too weak to hold a cup of tea, too tired to even think.
I went to the doctor, and he of course looked cynical,
Well, I was a woman. And middle aged at that!
I must be depressed. Or better yet, neurotic.
And ever since then, I’ve done the rounds of blood tests,
and “Are you depressed?”
“No”, I try to tell them.
I went to University and got a good degree.
Does this sound like depression?
I rather think not. And only exhaustion
made me give up on my longed for PhD.
But still and yet they ask me boringly, repeatedly,
“Are you depressed?”
No, I’m frustrated, I need to get a life!
My body won’t allow me to do the things I want to do,
to walk and dance and sing, oh how I long to sing!
I want to dance the night away just like I used to do,
or even go out walking, or have a holiday.
Instead I watch TV, and chat to people on the net
and, quietly and unobserved, go out of my mind.
On living with ME
Why don't I get angry?
Rant and rave?
And why so long?
Truth is, I can't afford it,
the energy required.
Just getting through each day...
I've none to spare for anger.
An unstrung marionette
lying deserted, abandoned.
But no, not that,
for then I'd never move at all,
and move I must.
A beanbag, yes, but filled -
not with light and fluffy stuff -
much heavier than that.
Lead shot, that's it.
Or better yet,
Yep, that's me.
And tiresome sensitivity
to noise and light
and eyes that ache
and muscles too
and coughing, sneezing,
Oh yes, I still laugh.
What else is there to do
When life's a joke?
Sentence Without Reprieve
On days like this I wonder why,
why I crawled put of the slime,
simply sleeping my life away
seems such a waste of time,
such a pointless existence
such a futile attempt.
There's no-one here to know or care
whether the place is unkempt
whether I bother to dress myself
whether I eat or drink
if I have energy enough
to rouse myself to think.
It wasn't always this way
once I had a life
those days were filled with doing,
with laughter or with strife.
Now that energy is scarce
life often seems too hard
it's a rare and precious commodity
something I jealously guard
but on days like this when sleep is all,
all that I can achieve
I wonder how I'll ever survive
this sentence without reprieve.
I forget to pay my bills, I forget to take my pills,
I forget to clean my teeth and brush my hair;
Most mornings I get changed into clothes however strange,
Though some days I'm too tired to even care.
I forget to clean or dust, though who's to say I must
When there's no-one here to notice anything?
And last month I forgot to arrange my bulbs in pots,
So I won't have any flowers in the spring.
I forget to make a drink, leave my dishes in the sink;
I forget about the toast under the grill;
And although it may seem crazy, my brain is just so hazy
I forget to ring the doctor when I'm ill!
I struggle through the days, my thoughts a misty haze,
Trying to make sense of why I'm here.
My children rarely call, one never does at all,
And yet I feel I ought to persevere.
I rarely leave the house, I'm as quiet as a mouse,
So people rarely notice me at all;
The postman calls of course; the aggravating source
Of piles and piles of junk mail in the hall.
No-one bothers me, so I read or watch TV,
I write to penfriends, paint; and stuff like that;
And sometimes when I'm sad, or the pain is really bad,
I go to bed and snuggle with my cat.
And now it's mid November, and I hope I can remember
To send a birthday card that's almost due.
It's for my grandson, Kain; I can't forget again,
He'll think I just don't care - and that's not true.
It's just that I forget. I wish that I could get
A brain that functions normally, you know.
And while I'm asking, please - some brand new batteries;
So I won't be such a sad old so-and-so.
Climbing Everest With Shakespeare.
As I lie here on my bed
I wonder what the future holds;
resting gets so boring
when even reading wears you out.
I have a radio of course though
interference ruins it.
When sorrows come they come not
single spies but in battalions.
Just getting up to feed the cat
is something of a challenge.
That it should come to this...
Imagine climbing Everest,
that should give you some idea.
A horse! A horse! My Kingdom for a horse!
Then back upstairs to bed
and back to boring nothingness;
to die, to sleep;
to sleep, perchance to dream...
Later on I'll go online and chat or write a bit.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
This world wide web is such a boon.
I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.
Pollyanna Would Be Proud.
Walking at snail's pace, as I do,
gives one a new perspective;
it has made me even more observant,
giving me time to stop and stare.
I see what the scurrying masses miss
as they go about their business:
the eternal fight for survival,
nature overcoming all.
Wobbling my way past the churchyard,
delicate daisies smile at me;
a golden profusion of dandelions
glows in the light of a warm spring sun.
Wild flowers force themselves
through hard dry city dirt
while tiny mosses on old stone walls
struggle against the odds.
Cherry trees have lined the road
with pink confetti, so pretty,
while others flutter their fresh green leaves
to greet me as I pass.
Signs of rebirth, though tiny,
speak of the will to survive.
I identify with these little things.
Pollyanna would be proud.
How could you imagine
there wouldn't be a price?
Happiness beyond compare,
unutterable joy like this
was bound to cost you something.
Who are you to think you should
receive such things as gifts?
So now you pay, and find yourself
bankrupt for the moment;
in the energy department.
Energy's like gold you know
to people with M E,
it's money in the bank to us,
and you have been impetuous
and overspent yourself.
Sleep again, you sleepy head,
it's back to bed for you,
back to sleeping your life away
back to watching the world go by
till your day comes again.
Old Folk's Home
(Very tongue in cheek)
I laugh at my condition,
it's the only thing to do;
there's no point getting morbid.
I've spent enough time blue.
But sometimes - only sometimes -
it gets a little scary;
I wonder what the future holds,
what traps for the unwary.
Will it get so bad that I
can't manage all alone
and end up vegetating in some
dreadful old folk's home?
I guess it has some perks though:
all those lonely men!
Just think of the fun I'd have
attracting lovers then.
Can you just imagine them
fighting lovers duels
(on canes d'you think or zimmer frames?)
and showering me with jewels?
Of course it could be single sex
Oh God! please spare me that!
I wouldn't last a week surrounded
by the endless chat.
I'd have to have some visitors
and sneak them in to this:
the only red light old folks home.
Just knock and ask for Chris.
I've managed a minor outing
the first in many a day.
The dandelions and daisies
were mostly mown away
but here and there a flowering shrub
enjoyed the summer sun
while I attempted to lose the hue
of an unbaked currant bun.
The prison pallor I sport these days
enthralls me less and less,
though calling it "pale and interesting"
helps a little I guess.
Resting a while on the churchyard wall
I was asked if I was all right
by a woman older than me by far;
I must have looked a sight.
Still, I made it there and back
which is something I suppose,
- thanks to the thick, black, hot as hell,
elastic, knee high hose.
A Virtual Life
I love my life on the internet.
It's all so easy you see.
If only real life were as simple.
How wonderful living would be!
[click] and rubbish would be removed
[click] and dirt disappears
[click] and the walls are covered with paint
[click] and the window clears.
No wonder I hang around online;
I pretend that I'm healthy and fit.
It's taking my mind off my problems
and often that helps quite a bit.
My need to get horizontal
is occasioned by different things;
it isn't always what men suppose
in their wildest imaginings.
Sometimes, it's true, I like to indulge
in the kind of thing I do best,
but sometimes I'm merely exhausted
and need to lie down and rest.
But try explaining that to a man!
Whether he's bright or dim
"I need to get horizontal" I fear
means only one thing to him.
Don't tell me that not all men are the same
you don't have to make excuses;
I know what goes on in the masculine mind;
the visions that phrase unlooses.
Whatever a man's convictions
always, for good or ill,
his thoughts are controlled by a primal urge
to procreate at will.
Survival of the species
is an instinct really rife.
Why do we make such a song and dance
about something so basic to life?
But next time I use the expression
don't assume that you are desired.
Ask and I'll say if I want to mate
or whether I'm simply tired.
I'm sixty now and, even worse,
this illness takes its toll.
I stumble 'n' fumble these days
instead of rock 'n' roll.
Weak and wobbly, worn out,
I stagger through the days
body aching, eyes dim,
my mind a misty haze.
Yet still my spirit struggles on;
I'll not lay down and die,
not while I have breath in me,
even just a sigh.
Depression lurks at every turn,
threatening and bleak,
but lately it doesn't last as long:
a day instead of a week.
In love and not for the first time,
though possibly the last,
this one surpasses anything
I've experienced in the past.
This darling man who loves me
for my body and my brain
makes me forget how old I am
and whether I'm in pain.
He's shown me much about myself,
fulfilled forgotten dreams,
taught the old dog some fancy tricks -
it's never too late it seems.
So, sixty now and counting;
roll on sixty one!
Far from being over now,
life's only just begun!
Character building they call it:
the struggle to survive,
when every day you're battling
just to stay alive.
When you really need that cuppa
and your body won't respond
and you've nobody to lend a hand
and you've lost your magic wand
what character does it take to cope
that you haven't already got?
Do I really need it building up
or should I just be shot?
Put me out of my misery;
you'd do it for a horse,
but human life is sanctified
and dignified. Of course!
When my legs decline to function
and I've stairs to navigate
I'm reduced to going on all fours.
It works, but isn't great.
I was made to be bipedal,
the arms are just too short;
it's ok going up I guess
but down is rather fraught.
So then I lurch from step to step
hoping as I go
that I won't fall headlong down the lot,
for nobody would know.
Character? Who needs it?
I've character enough.
What I need is a slave or two.
Not PC? Well, tough!
When your legs behave like jelly and your body feels like lead;
when your hands won't do things properly and fog infests your head;
when you want to go out dancing but you have to sleep instead
and your life consists of getting up and going back to bed;
When your home is like a prison and you're under house arrest,
when you rarely see your family or any other guest
then it's really not surprising if you sometimes get depressed
and it's too much of an effort eating, washing, getting dressed.
And when you get a visitor it's quite a big event,
like celebrating Easter after fasting all of Lent;
you give it all you've got until your energy is spent
then it's back to being boring to a very large extent.
So spare a thought for folk like us who slog it out alone,
who only contact others or the web or on the phone;
our lives can be quite difficult though we don't like to moan,
and occasionally tears will fall though mostly unbeknown.
Like a cactus in the desert, life has forced us to be tough;
the strength that keeps us going comes from having it quite rough
but underneath the prickles or what seems to others gruff
lies a soft and tender heart that often feels it's had enough.
© Aug 2004
Down and Out
Up too long
should have known
a down time
weak as water
forget the arms
refuse to move
woe is me
to even pray
god knows my needs
through each day
eat and drink
a little fun
someone to care
to be there
share life's burdens
but just for now
sleep is all
I used to run round on a big wooden ball
when I was much younger and fit
but now I can barely stay standing at all.
I've enough trouble trying to sit!
I stagger and stumble all over the place
and my hands do whatever they please.
My words come out slowly, forced out of my face,
as if they're determined to tease.
I lie on my bed while the universe tilts;
a beached whale in t-shirt and skirt.
What just walked across me, a man wearing stilts?
No, only the cat, but it hurt.
So what's brought about this unfortunate state?
What happened to make me this way?
Did a witch cast a spell? Was it something I ate?
No, 'twas something I did yesterday.
I went to the doctor, he gave me some pills,
he said they could help me, the creep.
I took just the one and it gave me the chills,
made me nauseous and sent me to sleep.
For more than a day now I've slept on and off;
it's been twenty eight hours so far.
I haven't the energy even to cough
and I've rarely felt quite so bizarre.
Never again will I take his advice!
I'll stick with the stuff that I know.
The herbs that I take may not work in a trice
but they've never yet laid me so low.
I think I should add that this state of affairs
made me stagger for over a week.
But now I've recovered - just one of life's scares -
and my future's no longer so bleak.
M.E. and ME
I'm living with an illness
of uncertain etymology,
a fancy way of saying
that they don't know what it is.
It's known by many names
but it's a Cinderella thing,
hidden from the gaze
of the public at large.
Thousands live this way but
they're often overlooked;
too ill to leave the house
how can they be seen?
Doctors, in their ignorance,
fail to recognise
that our quality of life
is phenomenally low.
No drugs exist to help us,
no research makes the headlines,
there's little money spent
and the findings are diverse
but then they have the gall
to suggest that we're depressed!
I'd like to see them live this way
and stay on top of things.
We sit or we lie while
the world moves on without us,
watching from the sidelines
instead of taking part
Year after weary year,
waiting for an answer.
When will Prince Charming
come to our aid?
Overdrawn at the energy bank,
a weekend away cost me dear;
in the red, resting up,
awaiting further funds.
A Good Day All in All
I needed to go out today
car was dead as a dodo, so
decided I would take a stroll
more of a wobble really.
Weather was warm and sunny
a few buds on the trees
funny, some of the things you see
the old church that isn't now
but still used for lecturing
a young oriental woman
well dressed, immaculate
laughing and chatting
the kind of thing I associate
with older folk or inebriates,
people living on the street.
Found a closing down sale
bought myself some bargains
and I was almost home before
the pain made walking difficult
Wrote this to pass the time
walking through the streets
maybe I was muttering too
making others wonder.
Though not ideal it proved
to be a good day
all in all.
Swiss Cheese and Twisted Genes
They say that my brain is turning to mush
metaphorically, swiss cheese,
with gaps appearing all over the place
and scarring too, if you please.
And now they're discovering something else,
my genes misbehave as well.
Maybe they went though the washing machine
on the hot wash cycle from hell.
Neurologically speaking I'm all messed up,
and my poor old mitochondria -
don't ask - I haven't a clue.
This morning I found that, while I could write,
my speech had taken a dive;
I had to keep stopping as words disappeared
and I went into overdrive.
Right now I'm forgetting the alphabet,
it's crazy, but there it is;
my hands are working ok for once
but my mind is all in a tizz.
So how can I make up poems at all
in such a dreadful mess?
I'm beginning to think they write themselves.
And they do it with such finesse!
Watching Olympians exhausting themselves,
struck by the differences and similarities.
the time to recover,
but often all I've had to do
is get out of bed.
What a wonderful day it's been
I finally got some sun!
I had to go for a mammogram,
not my idea of fun.
Some nice new clothes and a bit of "slap"
gave me the lift I sought
with some earrings and a necklace
that I'd recently, proudly, wrought.
I took a cab. It wasn't far
but all of it uphill
and went through the procedure,
uncomfortable, but still
it's not that bad, I've been through worse
and often do each day.
What can't be cured must be endured,
or that's what people say.
The journey back being easier
I decided to walk a ways.
The sun on my skin felt wonderful
and I revelled in its rays.
The snail's pace I accomplish
means many pass me by
and a friendly smile may be returned
if you catch another's eye.
While welcoming the summer heat
I enjoyed each cooling breeze
and dappled shade that beckoned me
beneath the city's trees.
I stopped to gaze in pure bliss
at flowers along the way;
my journey through the city streets
was like a holiday.
Ignoring the traffic's rush and roar
I sat for a while to rest.
Almost home, but I needed it;
I've come to know what's best.
I was only out for an hour or so
though it seemed a great deal more
but I couldn't have liked it better
on some far flung ocean shore.
It's been so long since I was out
- I'm a deathly shade of white -
that I treasure the simple pleasure of
my afternoon delight.
© Aug 2004
Springtime proudly promised much
but summer brought its shadows;
undeveloped fruit now falls
to lie in winter meadows.
Written during a time of deep depression.
For nigh on twenty years now
I've watched this awful thing
whittling my life away,
draining me of zing.
I lie, limp and languishing,
upon my bed each day
as time, once abundant,
slips seamlessly away.
Perhaps I should capitulate
with a modicum of grace,
give up this pointless struggle,
take up my allotted place.
Dreams will be unfulfilled,
but, cursed from the very first,
I can't say I'm surprised.
Grey skies glower down,
bare trees brood,
all is dark and sombre,
echoing my mood.
Fate, have your way with me,
I've no more strength to fight;
I'll follow unresisting
into endless night.
I think I need
Me - who lives
It's a heart thing:
on an off day.
it keeps me
Just as long,
I have to say,
as I stay
It's called a Cinderella thing
and is it any wonder?
This illness means my social life
is all but rent assunder.
No energy to go outdoors,
to wash the dishes, sweep the floors,
to cook a meal - but that's all right;
I've very little appetite.
The heart, it seems, is compromised,
the brain fares little better;
muscles, nerves, capillaries
pursue their own vendetta.
It's difficult to climb the stairs,
to wash or dress or do my hair,
to sit or stand or try to walk;
I've barely energy to talk!
My fingerprints are vanishing
so gripping is quite tricky.
I tend to drop things quite a lot
unless, of course, they're sticky.
No grip to do the smallest deeds,
like threading needles, stringing beads.
Paper, too, escapes my paw
and floats, serenely, to the floor.
They say that I should pace myself
but really, that's a joke.
I do so little anyway,
compared to other folk.
How can I make them understand?
Their world is like a foreign land -
a land I once inhabited
but now I might as well be dead.
Reliant on deliveries
I get what others choose.
Robbed of independence
it's more than pride we lose.
Against The Odds
Is it, really, worth it:
struggling against the odds,
putting off the awful day
for some unfathomable cause?
What doesn't kill you
makes you strong, but
what price strength?
And strength for what?
Years run their course,
one upon another;
pointless days of unfulfilled
subsistence, while life,
which never was a friend,
laughs its mocking laugh
and hurries by.
Waking as a beached whale
I slowly, imperceptibly,
transform myself into a seal
but still barely move at all,
battling with gravity.
Every inch of me pulsates,
harmonising with my heart
as, dry-mouthed, I
think my thoughts
for the tide.
Last night was the worst I ever had.
I've had some nights, but this was Bad.
Hot and sticky, I lay awake
aware of every pain and ache.
Pains in fingers, pains in toes,
a bad sore throat and a stuffed up nose.
On top of that this crazy eye
that's either weeping or far too dry.
Heartburn, that's a constant curse
to add to the list and make things worse
plus indigestion, gas on tap,
enough to make anyone feel like crap.
Limbs that twitched and jumped around,
a heartbeat equally unsound,
swollen feet and ankles too -
what on earth was I to do?
Honey helped to ease the throat
and mastic left a sweeter note
but there was nothing to be done
about the heat. Turn off the sun!
I did sleep briefly, twice, last night
but woke up both times in a fright:
nightmares, something rare with me;
making up for it, obviously.
Finally I slept, and how,
and do feel somewhat better now
but if that's all old age has in store
it's not worth waiting round here for.
Lord of the universe, powers that be,
send some energy, please, to me.
Give me the strength to leave my bed,
to realise whats in my head.
It's so very hard to cope this way,
with less and less stamina every day.
So, please, if someone is listening there,
have a heart, please, hear my prayer.
But if that's not part of the grand design
then show me another way to shine;
some help perhaps, some kindly soul
who'll enable me to reach my goal
of simply being what I should be,
before you set my spirit free.
The Grey Ones
We cling to shreds of self respect
as all we were just slips away;
watch, with fading intellect,
our lives and loves as they decay.
Like members of some strange new sect
we close our eyes and seem to pray,
bow our heads and genuflect
as energy just ebbs away.
Nothing works as we expect;
limbs and fingers disobey.
People now and then suspect
we're drunk, regard us with dismay.
We do attempt to sit erect
and stay awake throughout the day
but, slowly, as our powers defect
we slump, with faces white as whey.
So if you think that you detect
a lack of willingness to play
you'd almost - almost - be correct
but it's not apathy, per se.
We have to jealously protect
the little strength we have each day;
eke out the energy, reject
activities that make us pay.
We try to hide that we neglect
ourselves and let things go astray;
our conversation circumspect
as life gets harder every day.
Life is lived in retrospect;
betraying us, our bodies sway.
Please think about what you expect
of such as we, whose lives are grey.
Bad To Worse.
Things just go from bad to worse;
this illness, like some awful curse,
has robbed me of the will to live.
My brain's as leaky as a sieve
despite the fish oil - recommended -
with the evening primrose blended
swallowed umpteen times a day.
(How do you keep the taste away?)
Pills and capsules by the score
make each meal a dreadful bore,
keep me ticking over, just,
help to stop encroaching rust.
Somehow though it hardly matters.
Long held dreams are all in tatters.
Hope, a cold unfaithful lover,
left me, naked 'neath the cover.
Far too old before my time,
all reason gone, though I still rhyme.
When that deserts me - well, what then?
Breathe a sigh and count to ten?
Shuffle through another day,
life is in such disarray.
What's the point of living such
endless days of nothing much?
Wait! What's this? A quick e-note.
A man in Dorset - with a boat -
wants to write and be my friend.
Wonder where this one will end.
Plus a former lover sent
an instant message, passion-bent.
Men arrive like buses do:
none at all or else there's two!
No I will not meet with either
I'm not really in a fever.
Sadly I'll accept my fate.
It's just fun to contemplate.
Life? What Life?
Things are going from bad to worse;
perhaps I'm under some sort of curse.
I find it increasingly hard to walk
and now I croak instead of talk.
My batteries are almost flat
and that is all there is to that.
Who will bring me a bit of cheer?
No-one, for there's no-one here.
I stumble and fumble like some old drunk,
my house is increasingly full of junk,
if something doesn't change round here
I'm simply going to disappear.
Constantly swooning, light in the head
even when lying in my bed!
It's a poor excuse for a life I suppose;
though some have worse ones, goodness knows.
When they handed out lives I must have misheard:
the thought of a wife would have seemed absurd
but now that's the very thing I need!
If they let me start over I'll pay more heed.
A Study in Monochrome
Today my little patch of sky
is uniformly white. Dirty white
not starched and pressed;
no hint of colour cheers it.
Veiled by greying net and lace
which dips diagonally down
to a tangle of treetops
still dark in their winter garb
which, in turn, partly mask
the deep grey of
a building in silhouette
it presents a dreary view,
a study in monochrome.
Always The Same
Today I woke as dawn broke,
the barely lightened sky appearing
grey through the window net
while, below, the other
now green network
allowed glimpses of
yellow lights, some still,
even this early.
My window on the world,
always the same yet
Another New Day
Another day, another view,
no flash of gold, no hint of blue.
The sky is low, a dirty white,
in no way an inspiring sight
yet nature triumphs once again
for, on my window, spots of rain
become as jewels, diamond bright,
as passing cars bestow their light.
Another Day, Another View
Today I slept for many hours and woke to a surprise:
my legs were looking normal - that is in terms of size.
Swollen for the longest time, with ankles well obscured,
I now see ankle bones again and feel quite reassured.
The muscles, which I knew I had, I now can see with ease;
it makes a change from lower legs like logs below the knees.
It seems I need more time in bed, a boring proposition;
without a man about the place it's quite an imposition!
However, all that blood that pooled below my knees of yore
should now enrich my brain again and get me thinking more.
I guess this is desirable, though I'll let you decide.
I'm not too sure, with things like this, I'm really qualified.
A Little Luxury
Looking up at an azure sky
as the smallest of fluffy white clouds drift by
foam tipped wavelets lap lazily.
A cooling breeze wafts over me
as sounds of traffic assail my ears.
You might suppose an idyllic scene,
a beach perhaps, but no, not so;
the sky I watch is just as blue
seen through an open window
from whence comes the cooling breeze.
The wavelets I generate myself
as I wallow in my bath.
A Life of Sorts
I wake, I sleep, I eat, I breath,
it's life - but only just.
Hope, as the morning mist, is gone;
dreams all turned to dust.
To never see a starry sky
feel wind or rain upon one's skin,
hear birdsong or a seagull's cry
or watch the blessed day begin,
perhaps it isn't obvious
to those who lead a normal life
how loss of freedom lessens us
and leads to inner stress and strife.
To yearn to hear a human voice
or know a touch upon one's face,
to meet with company of choice
or feel anothers fond embrace,
such things as make one feel alive
and often taken as a right
are, for some, unreachable,
and turn our days to darkest night.
The Blue Ribbon : A Lyric
I have a pink ribbon, you've seen them I'm sure,
they speak of breast cancer and the quest for a cure,
But have you seen this one, my ribbon of blue
which tells of an illness much hidden from view.
ME, ME, ME, ME, it tells of an illness much hidden from view.
A mind that's befuddled, a body that's weak.
too tired to think, too exhausted to speak,
with aches and with pains and with fainting and chills,
it's really the most mystifying of ills,
ME, ME, ME, ME, it's really the most mystifying of ills.
There are many more symptoms by day and by night,
things that are worsened by noise and by light,
Some folk are so bad they are stuck in their beds,
Yet doctors still tell them it's all in their heads.
ME, ME, ME, ME, doctors still them them it's all in their heads.
So if you meet someone who's looking quite well
but wears a blue ribbon and says they're in hell
their illness is one largely hidden from view,
Their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.
ME, ME, ME, ME, their suffering just can't be guessed at by you.