Bequeath of Teeth
Not to question the Almighty
Though when planning out our life He
Might have done a better job
In the designing of the gob
For in the matter of our teeth
Far from a permanent bequeath
They’re like friends for aye of sorrow
Here today and gone tomorrow
I suggest a bold revisor
For the molars and incisors
Chance in later evolution
A less transient solution
Consider hair; it keeps on growing
In a breeze we feel it blowing
Head, and chin, and neath the nose
Waving free or tied in bows
As predictable as dawning
It gets longer every morning
So on schedule or a whim
We go and get ourselves a trim
What if our teeth would thus renew
In covenant that’s firm and true
Then after every loss of bite
We’d grow a fresh and pearly white
The mission then of dentistry
Not: fight growth of entropy!
But with the novel fresh mandate
To tend our crops and cultivate
With grin physicians then we’d be
Relaxed within their company
Not as a blessing to endure
But for their oral haute couture
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