Another Hypochondriac Dream
I think my ears are full of wax,
Cant hear the talk, telly phone and fax,
Miss all the best new rocking tracks,
Lose my balance, I’m on my back.
Probably need to use a cotton bud,
Probably need my ears syringed,
oh golly gawd, go to the doctors,
think I should?
I will, I’ll have to make an appointment,
Only if I wanted to I spose, but I never do,
Just moan all about my illness to
All my friends, yes, even you.
What do you think I should do?
See the quack, the medic dude,
He’s really clever and very shrewd,
‘Now change you habits!’, ‘change your food,’
I’ll say ‘I will…’ I won’t be rude, just
As long as I’m better, ‘when I’m cured!’.
There's plenty of time, I’m well insured
But I fell down again and its such a drag
Well that’s just me on the floor and that’s my bag.