Speccie malade imaginaire by 1 May
 

We can all do this. Did I tell you about the twinges I feel every morning? Sure sign o what killed Jane Austen. It's like this...

No. 2796: malade imaginaire

You are invited to submit a poem about a minor ailment written by a hypochondriac (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 1 May.

Well, here's a little thing I prepared earlier. To get the ball rolling.

Malade Imaginaire

Doctor, I’m ill. It’s like my throat’s
Stuck full of razor blades,
My feet are swelled to bloody boats,
I’ve got the trots in spades,.
My breath stinks like a Billy goat’s
And piles pop like grenades.
Doctor, I’m ill, I’m very ill.
I need a potion or a pill.

My heart is banging like a drum.
I know it’s going to burst.
Each tooth is rattling in its gum.
I’m racked with raging thirst.
My guts, my belly or my bum,
I don’t know which is worst.
Doctor, it’s doing in my head.
I need a sickie, or I’m dead.

I'm not sure about that, John. I've got a little splinter in my finger and it hurts too much to type or hold a pen... ;)

I’m doomed. I woke today convinced my brain has grown a tumour.
I need a transplant, but I fear I’ll never find a donor.
The pain is ghastly, incapacitating; I assure you
The thing is there, much bigger than the average satsuma.
I stagger to the doctor’s, where I tell him I’m a goner.
He smiles, and says “My remedy will either kill or cure you.”
I hate that doctor and his twisted death-bed sense of humour!

Upon my aching cancer-ridden forehead slowly melts a
Gigantic pack of ice that could have sunk the old Titanic.
The doctor says “Now swallow this”, and hands me something fizzy.
It works a treat, as if I’d taken heroin or schmeltz - a
Miracle! My cancer’s cured! I feel euphoric, manic.
“However did you do it, Doctor?” “Oh, it’s pretty easy
For hangovers - a double dose of good old Alka-Seltzer.”

Whenas my headache disappears
and there's no pain between my ears
it prompts my deepest, darkest fears:
is this a sign I'm ill?

It feels good when my headache clears,
but does that mean my mental gears
have halted after all these years?
I hope there is a pill.

I’ve felt a bit rotten of late and have gotten
A notion the end could be near.
It isn't the first time I’ve braced for the worst, I’m
Accustomed to living in fear.

But doctor, my body’s not looking so shoddy;
There's no angry rash on my skin.
No orifice oozing or serious bruising
Or parts where infection's got in.

No bits have gone yellow. A healthier fellow
Than me would be tricky to find;
I’m fit as a fiddle. The key to this riddle?
My sickness is all in the mind.

Though I am unstable and almost unable
To lift myself onto my feet,
It’s psychosomatic, so please be pragmatic
And bring a placebo, tout suite!

My thermometer is a deceiver,
or perhaps a mere underachiever;
it says that I'm fine,
below ninety-nine,
but I'm certain that I have a fever.

I'm starting to lose my good humor.
I've just heard the nastiest rumor
that a fever like mine
is quite often a sign
of malaria, AIDS, or a tumor.

Oh God! I’ve started peeing red!
I’m quivering with fear and dread.
In next to no time, I’ll be dead
xxxFrom cancer of the bladder.
Or even worse, the thing will spread
Like bindweed in my flower-bed
To kidneys, liver, lungs and head,
xxxA fate that’s even sadder.

I’m in a clinic by the Thames.
Is it a verdict that condemns,
Or is there hope with beastly chems?
xxxIf there’s a chance, I’ll try it.
But then, with sniggers and “ahem”s,
They come to tell me: “Well, it stems
From cherry-coloured M & M’s
xxxAnd beetroot in your diet.”

That's a cracker, Brian.

and i've a broken wrist

Is that true, Basil, or is it rhyming slang for "pissed"?

A hypochondriac might moan about a wee splinter but a broken wrist isn't my idea of a "minor ailment"! I hope it's not for real, Bazza.

Jayne

'fraid so, taking a walk on a lovely stretch of the cumbrian coast in spring sunshine, slipped on a rock, kaboom, soon had a helicopter with flying doc, paramedics, coastguards, then a and e, now all plastered up but can type one-handed though caps a bit awkward so doing it e e cummings style.

You see the fantastic dangers attendant on taking exercise. Take my tip. Never do it. If you think you might then sit down until the feeling passes.

Danishly, lamishly,
Hans Christian Andersen
Sported a pimple
Above his left eye;

Famously given to
Hypochondriasis,
Feared it would cover
His face and he’d die.


True story, that.

Song of a Slacker

(sung to the tune of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” )

What a friend is my physician
When I want to loaf and shirk.
How can one in his position
Force me to return to work?

After I am done disrobing,
Standing in his office, bare;
Then my doc commences probing
Blisters on my derriere.

I break out in hives and rashes
At the mention of my job.
I get night sweats and hot flashes;
Am I just a lazy slob?

What a joy are my diseases;
Aches and pains, I love to bear.
Are my sniffles, coughs, and wheezes
Just malade imaginaire?

I Can See it Now - "Dearly Beloved...
 

...We're gathered here to lay to rest
Our ill-disposed, departed friend
- A hypochondriac - who stressed
(Correctly, as he'd now contend)
That feeling fine left him depressed,
That wellness marked an awful trend
Implying that his time was nigh:
May sickness succour him on high."

.

I read once of a papercut
the person cut did not respect
enough to put a bandage on
to make sure nothing would infect

what seemed a minor little nick,
and in the morning, when he woke,
the man was feverish and sick.
I see you laugh, but it's no joke:

The man soon died, another case
of people taking lightly what
they do not have the sense to face.
A headache, cold or papercut.

Nice one, Brian. I often wonder why I no longer pee red after eating beetroot. As a child, it would border on the vermilion but adulthood seems to have deprived me of the knack.

The pain! The pain! The searing pain!
I doubt I’ll ever walk again!
I think he’s bust, or snapped, or bent
my bleedin’ cruciate ligament.
So bad I can’t stop rolling round
each blade of grass upon this ground
while drenching all with blood-flecked phlegm.
The TV replays will condemn
that studs-up, lunging tackle which
has left me writhing on the pitch.
Surely there’s no other path
for him, save to an early bath?
Oh ref, the pain! The raging pain!
I’ll never play full-back again!
You've sent him off? The crowd is pleased?
Ah wait, I think the pain has eased...

Look at these legs - I tell you, they’re my last ones.
I’m on them still, but won’t be for much longer.
When I was young and healthy, they were fast ones;
I’d Jive or Jitterbug, I’d do the Conga,

The Boogie-Woogie and the Bossa Nova
The Waltz, Watusi, and the West Coast Swing.
Oh, dancing was my life; I was in clover,
And I excelled at nearly everything.

I’d Tango, Twist, I’d Rock and Roll, I’d Rumba,
Cavorting on my tireless feet as light as
A balloon, and even in my slumber
I’d twitch like someone dancing with St Vitus.

But now the music’s slow and ballady;
I hobble round the dance-floor with my wife.
The doctor says I’ve got this malady,
A sickness, quite incurable, called “Life”.

Look at line 4, O demi-frog...

These half-frog eyes have looked and looked, O Wise One, but have seen nothing. We crave enlightenment.

Danse? or is that a special term applied to congas?

I've seen this as an archaic spelling (as in 'Danse Macabre') but is it appropriate here...?

I think it is, and given this thread's subject matter, I'd say it's rather nicely done.

I have a little pimple,
Or perhaps a boil or three;
The inverse of a dimple
Is the pox that’s plaguing me.
It started as a spot that itched;
I scratched; it hurt me more.
Discomfort’s note grew higher-pitched
With swelling of my sore.
From corner of my eye I see
It as a bump behind;
Acne’s acme creeps on me
And preys upon my mind.
Like dot-to-dot, designs
On me it makes! The day draws near
When nothing else of me repines
But one red, lumpy sphere.

OK, Brian - at some time during my deliberations about the spelling I thought of the Danse Macabre but rejected the thought. Why did I?

Now, looking the mediaeval depictions and the undeniable congatude of the thing - yes, I get it. But if that's what you wanted me to get, how about a cap. D?

Well, stap me vitals!

Ann, I read and re-read that line, counting the syllables, checking the metre, looking carefully at the words 'Jive', 'Jitterbug' and 'Conga' which, as you can imagine, don't form part of my usual vocabulary, but completely failed to spot the typo. (I maintain that it was one, since 'dance' and 'dancing' are spelt correctly elsewhere in the piece.)

I've changed the offending word to "do", although since it was a last-minute entry, too late to correct my submission.

It just goes to show that the eye can easily be fooled into believing that it sees what it expects to see.

Still, the shame! the humiliation! The only question is: should I have a large whisky, or simply blow my brains out? It's a bit early for whisky ...

No, don't do that - cling to the lifeline that Rob and Royston and even I threw to you, and pretend you did it on allusive purpose. I won't tell.

Rob, it's not archaic, just French.

Ann, you've convinced me to wait for whisky-time. "I think I will not hang myself today".

LOL. Serendipity?

Not an entry, but belatedly inspired by this competition:

I know an unfortunate fellow
Who sees stripes of orange and yellow
Afloat in the air all around;
These fictitious slivers abound,
And what’s more, he sees everything glint
With a similar, more dilute, tint:
I’ve heard him quite often declare,
“C’est ma ‘malade imaginaire’.”