That Bastard, Dementia

Don’t give me a sainthood
I’m doing just doing my best.
Just trying to cope and pass,
The dementia test.

I’m angry, I’m moody,
I want to scream from on high,
I’m not ready for sainthood;
So just back off awhile.

I’m losing my patience,
I’m answering back,
This thing called dementia,
Is on the attack.

One minute you’re cruising,
And think you know best,
Until the bastard, dementia
Takes over in jest.

Here comes all her friends of imaginary fame,
To mess with her psyche, she’s gone ‘looney’ again.
There’s that boy who just sits and puts on her gown,
And the ones who just wander and mess ‘Cyril’* around.

She’s lost her own bedroom,
The toilet, it’s gone.
And the bed it is crowded and looking very forlorn.
The two bed house has many beds you see.
They’re all in her mind,
They just change, mysteriously.

Locked in – she is trapped
And wants to leave, and go home,
For the doors they are closed and she no longer belongs.

It’s a horrible thing to lose who you are,
To not know your family, who watch on from afar.
No more will they visit, they’re put off by the theme,
Of continuing challenges of life at its extreme.

That bastard, dementia,
It will steal her one day.

Until then I’ll enjoy her and we’ll make our own fun,
They’ll be coffees aplenty and brandy bar none!
Because I’m storing up memories, of things that we share,
That one day she won’t remember,
It will be only me who will care.

So don’t give me a sainthood,
I’m struggling, at best.
Don’t give me a halo,
Cause I won’t pass that test.

Just be by my side
And help share the load,
Because that bastard dementia,
Will one day deal; its final blow.

*Cyril – Ma’s wheely walker


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