Arrives

It's late Saturday night, when with dismay
Your largest filling calls it a day.
It falls onto your tongue and you think of your folly
Of how you went wrong by accepting a lolly

Promoted by dentists, like all things intended
To destruct in your head when surgery's suspended
Spitting it out, it resides in your palm
A bloody great lump, you attempt to keep calm

Your wife says, weigh yourself now dear, you're considerably lighter
Whilst you look around for something to smite her
Your tongue explores, the space left in your head
Previously occupied by this large lump of lead

Oh God! You have found it, a huge open crater
You just know it will ache, perhaps three hours later
Until Monday you chew, avoiding collision
With the aforesaid crater and make the decision

That at first light on Monday you will phone George, the man
A dentist by trade, and a true artisan
Putting all thoughts of extraction behind
You think on the instruments as used by his kind

Those blunted needles, with which he gives you a serve
And the noise of his drill as it looks for a nerve
Monday arrives and with fear in your heart
You make the appointment, dreading the start

You arrive at his surgery. The receptionists new
How was your weekend? She smiles up at you.
What a dumb question, you feel like saying
As you glance at your fellows with molars decaying

They sit there relaxed, reading the mags.
Specially selected not to leave in their bags
Stuff like Macrame and Bonsai, its clear
You won't find a Playboy or Cleo in here.

A patient comes out, bloodied tissue clasped tight
You cast a swift glance to the guy on your right
His hand starts to tremble and he makes the remark
That he's forgotten to collect his kid from the park

He leaves in a hurry, leaving a space in the queue
And soon his assistant is beckoning you
You know George is smiling ,behind his white mask
As he ushers you forward and warms to his task

You sit in his chair, your fingers explore
The depressions left by the patients before
In the arms of the chair that now captures your form
Whilst you wait for the torture that George will perform

He bungs up your mouth with great lumps of cotton
Proceeding to look for the things that are rotten
His assistant with glee puts a pipe down your throat
That splutters and gurgles in places remote

Then he asks questions, but you're not replying
The pipe in your throat prevents you from trying
It sucks away slowly, giving voice to its song
As it bends to its task of devouring your tongue

The drill sends its message to the group sitting outside
That George is at work and that soon they'll reside
In the place where you're sitting, experiencing terror
Whilst praying to God that the drill makes no error

Like hitting the nerve and knowing the feeling
That astronauts have as you pass through the ceiling
Beads of perspiration appear on your brow
Slowly converging to disappear somehow

Below your shirt collar and there to combine
To leave trail of evidence of your guts in the line
Suddenly, its over, you sit, weak and drained
George continues his preamble on teeth that remained

You gather your composure, smile with disdain
At the patients who are waiting and who contemplate pain
You lean on the counter as you await your account
Smiling with confidence as you survey the amount

How come he's relaxed? you can feel them all thinking
Is the anaesthetic still working, or has he been drinking?
Laughing inside, you know your turn's coming
Cos in George's new home...you're doing the plumbing.