I went to the doctor,
dear old Dr. Proctor.
he hammered my knees,
told me to cough, sneeze
but pinched when he squeezed.
I have that dread disease—
drops drip when, where, they please.

The doc said, ‘It will pass
but watch out for the gas.’
Things slipped, they hang;
my chest … what the dang?
It, in my drawers sprang;
my rump thumped with a bang.
Are my organs insane?

My dangles need a sling
or some sort of super spring.
Jacked them up … oozed lard …
excess fat I canned, jarred.
My bod newly wired
till gas blasts off, fired.
It’s stink or bod admired.

Got chassis overhauled
to boost, tighten what sprawled
but thin’s more wrinkly,
I more often tinky,
fuss, am finicky,
this diet is icky.
I can’t have things sticky.

My dangles did me proud
so for crying out loud
give me the dang hangs …
they’re natural, sweet things.
I’ll boost them up with slings
but, plump, my heart strings ping.
Don’t like? Don’t touch my things!

Let me ding, dong, dangle!