The hypocondriac met the stoic And started to complain About his heart and elbow His liver, spleen and brain, His kidneys wouldn't function His bladder wouldn't drain, He'd have to see the Doctor To get something for his pain. The stoic wouldn't bother About anything at all, The touch of indigestion Was only something small, He wouldn't trouble anyone His symptoms to impart So he took "a spoon of soda" For "the wind around his heart." The Doctor's grave dilema That no one could explain Was why the one would never come And one could not refrain. He heard with deep emotion Of the stoic's sad demise But saw the hypocondriac Begin the realise That here was something else again, And so without restraint Demanded further tablets For another man's complaint.