Last Words Poem by Ima Ryma

A hypochondriac I guess
Is an apt description of me.
I have been very healthy, yes,
But always worry what might be
Causing my latest ache and pain.
I go to Doc to check it out.
And Doc always tells me quite plain,
Nothing here to worry about.
But the older I get, I know
There will come a time when I die.
And I'm hoping that when I go,
A real fancy disease is why.

My epitaph that I will pick,
'Hey Doc, I told you I was sick.'