The tidings aren’t happy: it is much as I’d imagined.
I am wretched and afflicted, I am gingivally challenged.
Regard these once-pink membranes that are now ripe-cherry red
as if I’d rinsed with cabernet or quaffed with the undead.
Unlike the chimp’s, the human mouth’s not meant to store one’s crumbs.
But Doctor Lop has found a bunch of pockets in my gums.
Voracious germs have festered there and chomped away at bone.
They’ve colonized my gumline! I had thought I was alone—
but I am host to nasty beasts who on my being sup
and so they shall until they’ve put my choppers in a cup.
Doctor Lop will bop them good with sundry pharmaceuticals.
If tablets fail, he’ll smother them with icky viscous-gooticals.
He’ll them scrape ’em out, he’ll ream ’em out, he’ll flush ’em from their caves.
Barbarians, the lot of them! A Taliban of knaves.
I’ve put my trust in Doctor Lop to zap them where they lurk-a
because without my teeth I’d volunteer to wear the burkha.