Arthur likes to go out late at night,
And hang out for a while,
In the local CVS,
At the hypochondriac’s aisle.
Usually it’s just a bout of gas,
Yet I don’t know why,
He decides that his time is up,
And he’s about to die.
Then he goes up to the pharmacist,
To the consultation counter,
And to no end tries to pick their brain,
For the better part of an hour.
Then Googles up on Web MD,
He’s since figured it kind of a waste,
But never the less his fingers obsessed,
He must see a doctor post haste!
And then he browses the aisles,
Drooling with delight and glee,
And he sees the different maladies,
Thinking, “What could it possibly be?”
He comes back to his apartment,
His arms filled up to the brim,
With no doubt he’s sure he’s found the cure,
For what might be ailing him.
And it seems that he’s diagnosed himself,
Based on his medicinal collection,
With acid reflux, acne, asthma,
A vaginal infection.
Arthritis, hemorrhoids, bug bites,
An STD, erectile dysfunction,
Ringworm, rabies and lice.
And so salves are applied, doses taken,
And Arthur calms down a bit,
And sleep is a pleasure, he’s never felt better,
Till he wakes up feeling like shit.