[Intro – manic laughter]
“Ha–ha–ha–ha!
Doctor Freud, you dead ol’ quack,
I wrote you a letter —
but it came out a rap!”
⸻
[Verse 1]
Dear Sigmund Freud, let me pick your brain,
I’m the clown prince of crime, clinically insane.
Diagnosed myself with a Bat-shaped obsession,
Every Rorschach blot looks like my confession.
Id, ego, superego in a three-way brawl,
But in my Arkham chart, they just call it “LOL.”
Oedipus complex? Nah, I skipped that class,
But I did kiss Harley on her psycho pass.
⸻
[Chorus – sing-song mockery]
🎶 Hey Freud, I’m a joke you can’t decode,
Even Jung said my archetype’s “chaos overload.” 🎶
Batman’s my therapist, but he don’t take notes,
He just punches my face and tightens my throat.
⸻
[Verse 2]
You said dreams hide secrets, well here’s my REM:
I’m driving the Batmobile at 3 A.M.
Catwoman’s shotgun, Scarecrow’s in the trunk,
Penguin’s selling coke and Two-Face is drunk.
Tell me, Doc, is laughter a coping skill,
Or a symptom of trauma they can’t quite kill?
My punchlines are diagnoses wrapped in bows,
Call it gallows humor when the body count grows.
⸻
[Bridge – rapid fire Joker rant]
Talk therapy? Tried it!
Group therapy? Fried it!
Electroshock at Arkham? Damn right, I supplied it.
You smoked cigars, but I smoke the town,
One big Freudian slip and Gotham falls down!
⸻
[Verse 3]
Freud, you’d say my fixation’s clear,
But Batman’s my daddy and he won’t shed a tear.
Projection, transference, call it what you like,
But he’s my dark mirror when the lights ignite.
So write me a script, Doc, a script for the stage,
Where I’m Hamlet with dynamite, Joker uncaged.
No cure for the clown, no therapy couch,
Just me and the Bat in an endless ouch.
⸻
[Outro – laughing fades into scribbles]
So long, Dr. Freud, I’ll sign with a grin,
Put my couch on fire, let the session begin.
You had slips of the tongue, but I slip the noose,
Your theories were funny… but I’m the proof.
“Ha…ha…ha…HA–HA–HA–HA!”
Classy
