Classic Poem

Truth.

" What is truth, " was asked of old,
By one Pilate, Pontius.
Where is truth, we now are told:
'Tis in the Unconscious.

What is this, if not the well
Wherein truth lies hidden?
From which she (as Freudians tell)
Issues forth unbidden?

Down you let your bucket fly,
Seeking inspiration,
And the bucket comes up dry —
Not a cerebration.

But when you are sound asleep
As a rustic maiden,
Then the bucket, from the deep,
Comes up heavy laden:

Laden with the weirdest brew
Ever seen or heard of,
Fraught with Freudian meanings you
Don't believe a word of.

Nor do I. I think it's rot,
All the psycho-chatter.
Whether it be true or not,
Does it really matter?