The dental hygienist rides the train
Into town and then out again.
Her job, in part, is to inflict pain
On those who dental flossing feign.
(Her scrubs this day are the color teal
Perhaps the better to make folks feel
That everything’s ducky, there’s no need to squeal,
Their teeth will be fine by the very next meal.)
The hygienist’s a lass who must inspire cheer
When she sticks her left breast into your ear
And says, as her shiny tools cause you to fear,
“Any changes in your health since you were last here?”
(She also has a set that are indigo
Not sure that’s good for the mood, you know
It’s close to blood red, and so although
It’s fine for some girls, on her a no-no.)
She starts to scratch with her sickle scaler,
It’s sharp, the implement never fails her.
Then she shifts to her tartar scraper,
Causing you to shift and succumb to the vapors.
(Some days she wears a Wedgewood blue,
A somewhat reserved and distant hue,
It doesn’t inspire, no good to pitch woo.
That’s okay by me, I don’t know about you.)
She pokes around, and asks if you’re brushin’—
She must have learned torture from Tsarist Russians.
She inquires about your dental history,
Why she needs to know remains a mystery.
You swallow hard, the saliva ejector,
Sucks all the spit that it can detect there,
She looks—mysterious—behind her mask,
You have just one thing that you want to ask.
At length, at last, you’re finally through,
She smiles, and then the spotlight’s on you!
“If you don’t mind, I have one suggestion–
When my mouth is full I can’t answer questions.”