Oh, she of stripe-ed teeth
Doth to the dentist go this morning
She of multicolored teeth
Doth offer him this warning:
(She with holes that air blows through,
and tooth ends crumbled down)
"Oh dentist sir, my hope's astir
You'll make me a nice crown."

Not crown of sort atop the head
Of gents and ladies regal
Nor Crown, the company in town
This town of dock and seagull.
Although, like kings, I gather gold
A-glint (atop my teeth.)
And when I'm dead, to you my dear
My gold I do bequeath.

Oh dentist, sir, and oh, my dear
Now that I've writ this poem,
It's time (again) to drop the pen
And toward the dentist roam.