All Other Martyrdom is Naught before Mine
This harsh, persistent pain I have, O Doctor, tell me, please,
Can it be cured by some cheap salve, Or have I some disease
Beyond the scope of modern meds And pessaries and pills,
Like something Biblical in scope, One of those icky ills
You read about in magazines, See movies-of-the-week
About so frightful that you Realize that you’re a freak
To have such creepy plague, To be afflicted so, withal,
That even specialists will cringe And dash off down the hall
To hide behind their file Cabinets until you leave
Because they’re overwhelmed by the Bizarreness they perceive
Upon your person when they see Disturbingly displayed
Such malicious malady It makes them sore afraid.
What say, Sir Doctor? You detect My source of agony?
Who suffers worse than martyrs who Have papercuts, like me!
So clever!!! ❤
I hope it didn’t sicken you! 😉
Love this!!! I had to send it up to StumbleUpon so other folks can read it!
Thanks, Desi! I’m pretty sure I’m not a hypochondriac myself, but maybe my other neuroses and delusions more than make up for it in entertainment value. 😉
I greet and wish you a nice Sunday
Thank you, Marko, I hope you are beginning a wonderful weekend just now yourself! 🙂
ha! I did not expect that. Clever. 🙂
Ahhh, but if you had suffered like *I* have…. 😉
I hope this is fictional, K? Darling fun of a poem with your signature twist. =)
Heehee! I doubt I qualify as a hypochondriac. I am more afraid of going to doctors if I don’t absolutely have to than I am of getting any illnesses or injuries. Though I will admit to being a big wuss and avoid the tiniest amount of pain or discomfort or danger as if it were the plague. 😉
You enjoy describing yourself as a wuss but
Only because I’m a *big mean* wuss. 😉