The hygienist clucks her tongue
To get her point across.
My teeth will start to rot away
If I don't start to floss.
She pokes and prods; she sands and scrapes
And all the while she lectures.
"A sonic toothbrush you must buy"
And other such conjectures.
I listen 'cause I have no choice
But once I'm up to rinsing,
I've had enough of what she thinks
Is helpful and convincing.
In six months' time, I'll make her day,
For surely she'll be waiting
To see the likes of me again,
All set for her berating.
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