Why yes, this one must go I fear
Looks like a touch of pyorrhoea
That can be stopped, but as for this
Dear me, a little wider please.
Quite a big job, tomorrow then
We'd better make it half past ten.
Then after hours and hours of quaking
Of course the damn things all stop aching.
With nerves stretched taut and fingers groping
To push the bell we stand there hoping
To find the dentist taken ill
Knocked down, bumped off or what you will.
No luck and in the waiting room
We sit and dwell upon our doom
Cocking an ear to catch the groan,
The grunt, the sob, the sigh the moan
The strangled yell, the stifled roar
Behind the torture chamber door
And oh how vividly we feel
The lance, the probe, the drill, the wheel
Foretasting every one of these preliminary agonies.
Dry lips, wet palms and knocking knees
We hear the summons 'This way please'
Basins and tables, sickly scents
A tray of gleaming implements
And one in white dressed for the fray
'Good morning, what a dreadful day'
Do take a seat, and there,
Shining and sinister, the chair. |
Back in the inquisition
days
Men thought of many humourous ways,
Of making peoples nerves to crack
The boot, the thumbscrew and the rack
But none invented such a snorter
As this, the dental scavenger's daughter.
Now in her cold embrace we sit
Writhing as if in some weird fit
Eyes screwed up tight, nerves all alert
Now take it easy, this won't hurt.
Deftly the probe begins to pry
Won't hurt! By gum and heck and hell
We want to swear and kick and yell
The thing is digging at the roots
Which go right down into our boots
What horror next, the buzzing drill
Tears at our tattered nerves until
Above the wheels distressing whine
We hear it grinding at our spine.
No more, then faint and far away
That will be all I think today
Had a good holiday, that's fine
I don't know when I'm taking mine.
Now let me see, tomorrow say
At half past three, is that okay ? |