I'M Not A Hypochondriac Poem by Patti Masterman

I'm not a hypochondriac, I'm sure you'll understand
Even though my two legs tingle, till I'm sure I cannot stand.
It creeps up to my chest and I'm sure that I must die
But somehow I live on; so relieved I give a sigh.

There was that time I ate the lye, not washed well from the dish
I swore that I could taste it past the cheesecake (so delish) .
I sat down faint and took my pulse, for at least a half an hour
And swore next time I made desert, the dishes I would scour.

Sometimes I'd swear that botulism lives in all the cans;
The one that once exploded, has invaded all my lands
And my kitchen cabinets house an evil opportunist
I always smell and watch my cans, because I am a doomist.

In a magazine that I once read, it said you should beware
That the tiny viral particles will hang quite still in air,
Just waiting for your nose, to dry out in indoor heat-
And if that doesn't get you, well there's crabs, on toilet seats.

If my dog is off his food, I'm sure it must be rabies,
And once upon a sauna bench, just knew that I'd caught scabies.
I know if I live long enough, something's bound to kill me sure
And with my luck you know, will be something they can't cure.