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LYRICS DOCTORS We fear there's bromidorisphobia Which means that there's a love o'ya poor brain Which isn't workin' really right. Compound phneumonoconiosis leads to only one prognosis That supposes you could last to Tuesday night So we address the situation with a grave deliberation As physicians not magicians who you seek A case of thrombocytopenia at this stage Can only mean ya Got no paddle an' you're really up the creek Because you're sick, sick, sick! And you ain't gettin' better quick, quick, quick! We would do somethin' really good, if we could, But we can't, and we won't, So we'll keep right on consulting, Please don't think that we're insulting, But you're ill, ill, ill! And boy for us is that a thrill, thrill, thril We'd like to help ya but your case is complicated And we know when something's fated, So relax, enjoy and please stop asking why! Because you're sick, sick, sick! And we think you're gonna die. You've got a hirsute hidroadenosis That's our major diagnosis And how close is your demise we cannot tell. But this results in melancholia And as we already tol' ya As a whole ya really doing not so well. You got a bad coxsackie virus Which has now begun to tire us And we've done about as much as we can do. It doesn't matter what yer wishin' Go and call a good mortician 'Cause you're fadin' fast And you ain't pullin' through! Because you're sick, sick, sick! Yer future isn't worth a lick, lick, lick! As master surgeons we confess, You're a mess and we'd like to express Our condlence to your father, Gad, it really is a bother that you're ill, ill, ill! And wait 'till Poppa gets the bill, bill, bill! We know you're sinking And although we're glad we met ya That ol' reaper's gonna get ya So we'll big adieu and wave ta ta goodbye! Because you're sick, sick, sick! And we know you're gonna die. Hmmmm.