No doubt the prospect of a tooth
Infected by a microbe’s lack of ruth
Conjures scenes of horror and dismay
To convert each healthy hair from black to gray.
Would that dentist’s eyes, hard merciless,
Could fascinate, not generate distress.
Those pupils could, in hypnotic power
Soothe me to sleep for torture’s hour.
So while I sail 3through golden dreamland seas
My dentist grinds and chips at my disease,
Bores holes and stuffs them with a sturdy filling,
A process consciousness finds less than thrilling.
Then, rising with a renewed smile,
I congratulate his skill and clever guile
And still a captive to his guiding will
Spread wide my billfold and overpay his bill