It is my shadow self in the book
upon Jung's shelf that no-one knows
But I have eleven buttoned archetypes
and one unbuttoned lost personality
Swinging from his hang man's noose.
That Freud will use for a necktie
On Sunday when I lend it to him
To watch him die pretzel-shaped
In a book of talking cancers.
O, thy intelligence was stunning.
- Poem by Jobe