The Hygienist

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.