She travels to the cupboard and finds no pills to spare.
Upstairs then she would wander and find there naught but stair.
So into then the kitchen for an herbal remedy,
But there again, no tincture that could ever comfort she.
To the apothecary, to the druggist she marched fast.
Could they perhaps procure for her the cure she sought at last?
Oh no! The store was closed and Oh calamity felt near,
For fight the storm she could not do that grew between each ear.
The therapists, she’d heard said, for a dollar or an alm,
Could aid her better in this than what she took from her palm.
Now she is there driven for her mounting mental ills,
As all to be found anywhere are spent bottles of pills.