I'M Not A Hypochondriac

I'm not a hypochondriac, I'm sure you'll understand Even though my two legs tingle, till I'm sure I cannot stand. It creeps up to my chest and I'm sure that I must die But somehow I live on; so relieved I give a sigh. There was that time I ate the lye, not washed well from the dish I swore that I could taste it past the cheesecake (so delish) . I sat down faint and took my pulse, for at least a half an hour And swore next time I made desert, the dishes I would scour. Sometimes I'd swear that botulism lives in all the cans; The one that once exploded, has invaded all my lands And my kitchen cabinets house an evil opportunist I always smell and watch my cans, because I am a doomist. In a magazine that I once read, it said you should beware That the tiny viral particles will hang quite still in air, Just waiting for your nose, to dry out in indoor heat- And if that doesn't get you, well there's crabs, on toilet seats. If my dog is off his food, I'm sure it must be rabies, And once upon a sauna bench, just knew that I'd caught scabies. I know if I live long enough, something's bound to kill me sure And with my luck you know, will be something they can't cure.