A final diagnosis
Thought I'd let my doctor check me,
'Cause I didn't feel quite right. . .
All those aches and pains annoyed me
And I couldn't sleep at night.

He could find no real disorder
But he wouldn't let it rest.
What with Medicare and Blue Cross,
We would do a couple tests.

To the hospital he sent me
Though I didn't feel that bad.
He arranged for them to give me
Every test that could be had.

I was fluoroscoped and cystoscoped,
My aging frame displayed.
Stripped, on an ice cold table,
While my gizzards were x-rayed.

I was checked for worms and parasites,
For fungus and the crud,
While they pierced me with long needles
Taking samples of my blood.

Doctors came to check me over,
Probed and pushed and poked around,
And to make sure I was living
They then wired me for sound.

They have finally concluded,
Their results have filled a page.
What I have will someday kill me;
My affliction is old age.

7 Word Obituary
A woman from the deepest, most southern part of Alabama goes
into the local newspaper office to see that the obituary for
her recently deceased husband is written. The obit editor
informs her that the fee for the obituary is 50 cents a
word.

She pauses, reflects and then says, "Well, then, let it
read, 'Billy Bob died'."

Amused at the woman's thrift, the editor says, "Sorry ma'am,
there is a
7 word minimum on all obituaries."

Only a little flustered, she thinks things over and in a few
seconds
says, "In that case, let it read, 'Billy Bob died - 1983
Pick-up for
sale.'"