False Diagnosis
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On the edge of my seat, On the tip of my chair, Sweating in the Doctor's Lair, Waiting for that sympathetic stare And the news That my slack heart Needs a jump start, Liver fails to deliver, Blood is clogged With choleric cholestrol, Kidneys are more cesspit Than filtration device, Belly fluff is full of lice, Tonsils are shot With boasting bacteria Roller-coasting Down my gullet To a soirée In the small intestine. Inwardly I scream And await the death sentence On my organs. He'll tell me that The years of gorgonzola Gormandising and Elevated caffeine intake Have condemned me To an early coffin-break. Oh my aching mind! I can feel the blinds Descending and my DNA un-mending. The worms are wriggling Down my spine When the doctor says ‘You've got a bit of a cold, You'll be fine.’
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Poem Study Notes:This poem was written in 2014, when the poet, now become middle-aged, began to feel his mortality. This poem was inspired by the modern addiction to self-diagnosis-by-internet, which often results in us managing to convince ourselves that some little rash or chill is in fact a sure sign of imminent death ... and so we all end up in the doctor's surgery with a panic attack, dressed up as something more serious. Of course, eventually the statistics catch up with everyone and really things are more serious. But hey, let's be optimistic and worry about that at the time ...
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