Well you couldn’t really stand – no -

not with all that shemozzle going on

inside your mouth – the water swilling

out the blood – another molar yanked

and costs – sky roofing for a crown to

last - perhaps another year or two – and

that glue, tight packed inside the place

your mates and others call a cake hole -

which dentists give their fancy names to

keep you guessing what the price will be.

I often think of countries overseas where

dentistry was used high up on the torture

scale, for dissidents who later came to rule

their proper roost. Then boots were worn on

other feet and thought their job was neat.

Of course the waiting room was nearly just

as bad looking at the sorry faces of those

‘who’ll be next’ to have their molars – tugged

and then the lectures start about the tartar all

around and all the sweet stuff that was downed.

Browned off that’s me at weekends when the

surgery closes for a break and then the nagging

at the upper right begins, and codeine pills

you keep in stock no longer seem to work and

you cursing to yourself for running much too low.



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