ON DENTISTRY

As sure as there are Death and Taxes,
I go to get my Prophylaxis.
The hygienist scrapes and scrapes:
With metal tools my mouth she rapes.
She scrapes until my gums are sore,
And then she scrapes a little more.
And then (to show me who is Boss),
She gets a load of Dental Floss,
Enough to make a Christmas wreath.
And then she jams it ’twixt my teeth.
All this, to hear the words that please:
“Look, Elisson - no cavities!”