BEASTLY TALES

THE DENTIST (Circa 1875)

Herman Crock, a dentist without a degree,
Wore a collarless striped shirt, his neck free.
The shrill voice of his son, sounding as though from the roof.
“The Sheriff wants you to pull his tooth.”
“Tell him that I am away from here,”
“Tell him that my fees are far too dear!”
“He says that he’ll shoot you if you don’t end his pain!”
“He says that his pain goes straight to his brain!”

The dentist stopped pedalling the drill,
Pushed it away from the chair, no frill.
“Alright, tell him to come in and shoot me if he will,”
“For, right now, I can’t either pull teeth or drill.”
He rolled the chair opposite the door,
His hand resting on the edge of the drawer,
Where he kept his trusty Colt Peacemaker,
Good for defending him from Sheriff or Quaker.
The Sheriff appeared with swollen jaw base,
The dentist saw days of desperation in his face.
The dentist inspected the infected tooth.
He faced the Sheriff, looking aloof.
“You have an abscess, so I won’t use anaesthesia.”
“It’ll make your eyes water, it surely won’t please you!”
The Sheriff grabbed the arms of his chair,
Braced his feet, eyes wide in a stare.
The dentist grasped the tooth with the forceps,
And braced himself with tentative steps.
The Sheriff felt the crunch in his jaw,
As the tooth came out, he’d settled the score.
One throbbing pain, exchanged for another.
The dentist threw the tooth, after lifting the cover,
Into the spittoon next to his pedal drill,
Manhandling the Sheriff gave him a thrill.
On departing, the Sheriff muttered, “Send me the bill.”
The dentist thought, “I’ll make it quick, before, him, someone does kill!”