THE ELECTRIC CHAIR
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.