Yes mine is but a sorry tale thatís filled with nervous dread.
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Where all I see, my destiny, are ailments ahead.
Thermometers are poorly made. These cheap, defective sticks.
They never seem to rise above a ninety-eight point six?
My lungs are filled with greenish phlegm. My heart beats when it can.
The tumor in my brain still grows despite my healthy scan.
I take two pills at nine a.m., then take three more at five.
At two a.m. I wake myself to see if Iím alive.
Regrettably, sciatica has robbed me of my stance.
I know my schizophrenia is starting to advance.
Iím sure my prostate is diseased. Iíve known since it began.
My doctor says it couldnít be because Iím not a man.
Iím hypersensitive to light, intolerant of dairy.
My nurse says that Iím doing fine and I say ďoh, contrary!Ē
I wrote my will when I was five, for any day Iíll croak.
I could develop Legionnaires, or drop dead of a stroke.
I donít believe the specialists when they say I am well.
Cuz Mr. Death is at my door and wants to ring the bell
Kelly Ann Malone