Here ya go, Rudder.

In the fall of 1980, a hallmate of mine attended his midmorning psych class after he’d swallowed a couple of quarter hits of LSD. About ten minutes into the class he noticed the photographs in the open textbook on his desk had begun to speak to each other, and were dramatizing the lecture as the professor delivered it.
Once the professor got around to discussing Stockholm syndrome, my friend was compelled to shut his book and leave the classroom. The photographs had become a videotaped discussion between his father and the professor in front of the family television. They were watching the Munsters.

Stockholm This, Buddy! (With profuse apologies to Wendy Cope).

Some captors never think of it.
You did. You’d just dropped by
to say you’d nearly beaten me
But had forgotten why.
I might scream, maybe. Alert neighbors.
The invasive, prying sort.
Or I might have willed the beating,
And really, where’s the sport?
It made me want your beating
but you left, and locked the door
At least you left me manacled
to the bedrail near the floor.

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