The Hypochondriac

Hey, bud, I see you've got this weird type of paranoia, fearfully believing that all the germs are scheming to kill ya, that's why you don't trust bottled water, not even tequila; and you rely so much on the power of your disinfectant, toward a slight smudge on the doorknob you're intolerant because to you it's the plague lying there lethally dormant; nothing wrong with being sanitary, with being hygienic, but yours is a worrisome worrying, bordering on the psychotic, soon you'll be scared of inhaling air, boy, that's gonna be tragic!