A SMALL BOY TO HIS DENTIST

Hilda Stob Poetry

IT ISN’T THAT I DON’T LIKE YOU, MR. DENTIST MAN,
IT ISN’T THAT AT ALL.
BUT EVERY TIME I SEE YOU,
I HURT LIKE I’VE HAD A FALL.

WHEN I FALL MOM GIVES ME A BAND-AID,
BUT I DON’T EVEN GET GUM TO CHEW,
WHEN I GO TO VISIT THE DENTIST MAN.
SO HOW CAN I EVER LIKE YOU?

YOU DON’T REALLY MEAN TO HURT ME.
JUST AS YOU ALWAYS SAY.
BUT I’M NOT VERY HAPPY WHEN MY MOM SAYS,
YOU MUST GO TO THE DENTIST TODAY.

 

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