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