You’re sick . . . you throw up
your doughnut, then cough up your dough.

You’re sick . . .
    it’s latagra   viuda   huquis   truelto*
    elimira   cymtox   bobalta––
     a treatment, not always a cure.

Nervous   anxious   jittery?
    There’s taxtax   umum  alixity.
Bilious? Pills are plenteous.
    Sluggish? There’s amplemethodadderine.
Dolor? Try lexatriptylzimadep (brings dollars galore).
    Stab   ache   throb   itch? No dearth
of ointments for such predicaments.
    (Someone’s getting rich rich rich and richer.)

Ubiquitous, the medicaments meant to mitigate
    the dire   severe  life-threatening . . . and even  
simple symptoms of the nothing-much-at-all.

Very Mary-contrary, I’m growing!
    My garden of sense is opposed to dispensing
of pretense, nonsense and worse––
    predation  chicanery   snake-oilery.

My silver bells are ringing out:
  refusals   rebuttals  reprisals   reproofs.
My cockle shells are laying bare
    whatever seems cockamamie.

Made sick by the scourge of big-pharma,
    its ads that target not only the sick
but the easily-persuaded-they-are,
    I have no appropriate potion
to restore mental health of our nation.
    Whoever, though, IS sick––
good that they have some options!
    Happily, I live,drug-free.

 *Note: all drugs in this poem aremockeries of real ones