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My Annual Physical
by Wayne Scheer

Went to see the doc
not because I was feeling sick,
but because I felt so well.

“Something must be wrong, Doc,”
said I. “At seventy-five, I feel so good
I could pass for a kid of sixty-two.”

So he listened to my ticker
heard it flicker
to the beat of its own drum.

He gave my lungs a listen,
no whistlin',
clear as a bell and in tune.

“What the heck you worried for
when you're fitter than a fiddle,
riddle me that, why dontcha?”

(Don't know why I have him talking like that,
since he's from Chicago,
not Fargo or Caddo, Oklahoma.)

Anyways, who or how,
now he furrows his brow
and asks how I've been sleepin'

And bowel movin' and all that.
“Fine,” I tell him,
“but not at the same time.”

He chuckles at my joke,
gropes my belly.
Then he takes out the jelly.

“Turn around, drop your drawers and bend over.”
I tried thinking of something to say,
but, hey, I just wanted to make this part go away.

So he poked where the sun don't shine,
declared it fine,
and said see you next year.

He never explained
my lack of pain
and why, at my age, I felt like dancing.

But after his exam, I can assure you
I am in no mood for prancing.