The Syndrome

I'm held captive, hang on to your every word,
they say that all this paranoia is rather absurd;
'he has a fear of heights Miss, nearly fell off his chair,'
'don't worry, I'll cane him when his bum is in the air.'

Can't go out, fear of open spaces, maybe you lie,
maybe a bun in the oven is just pie in the sky;
'he's writing backwards miss, too many homophones,'
'if you knew what's new, I'd make sure blue was blew.'

Arachnophobia settled in, once up in a glider,
not a syndrome, just a big black hairy spider;
'he' doesn't want to use crayons Miss, pencil case.'
listen boy, stop talking otherwise the wall you'll face.'

'He doesn't want to sit next to girls Miss, says they smell,'
'enough - hear the joke about three wells - well, well, well.'