My Guy, On His Death Bed

He said 'I'm feeling queasy and my stomach feels upset',
He wrote me two great novels of the things I had to get,
He lay there on the sofa, acting really ill,
Asking stupid questions on how to write his will.
I told him he was healthy, that it stemmed from in his head,
But he said that he was dying, so I helped him back to bed.
I took his pulse, then felt his brow, it felt as cold as ice,
He grabbed my arm, with some alarm and made me feel it twice.
His eyes they started glaring, he seemed in some distress,
Until I caught him staring quite contently down my dress.
I gave him several tablets, and he gave me such a frown,
He said he'd need a beer or two to help him gulp them down.
I breathed a sigh, then waved goodbye, and said 'I won't be long.
I'm off to tell the drug store they're about to make a bomb!'
He begged me not to leave him, because it was his fear,
Without attention, dare he mention, he may not be here.
I left him on his death bed, sleeping like a log,
Laughing cos' the pills he'd had, were really for the dog!
But on returning, something burning, struck my sense of smell,
My patient sat there eating, but just what, I couldn't tell.
'I'm feeling so much better', came his reason for the feast,
Laughing like an idiot, the good for nothing beast.
'And after this I'm going out, my mate, he's just phoned up.
Our team are playing home today, I hope we win the cup'.
I knew the whole darn show, held not a single little fact,
So when he's ill, I let him grill, within his thrilling act!

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