Sonnet for an ageing hypochondriac
I’m concerned about my prostate and the colour of my pee,
It’s not that pale straw or light Sauterne I’m sure it’s meant to be.
My knees are giving trouble, my anatomy is grey
And my skin is hanging on me like a dank and dismal day.
I wake each night with trembling, in deadly earnest fear
At each new pain that stabs me from my toes up to my ear.
I know in my diseased heart just what these symptoms mean,
At the very least it’s dengue but it could be ruptured spleen.
And even my left ankle, with its sharp recurring pain
Is probably just agony referred from a tumour on the brain.
There’s a pimple on my shoulder, which I’m sure is melanoma,
And a clot that’s traveling quickly north to send me in a coma.
I’ve athlete’s foot and housemaid’s knee and a bum that’s hemorrhoidal.
The whole thing really gets me down, I feel quite suicoidal.