Madame Eulalie’s Rare Plums

[A certain dentist is using a gramophone to lessen the horrors of tooth-drawing.]

A sympathetic, kindly man
That dentist was of whom I sing:
He long had tried to find a plan
To lessen people’s suffering:
It made him feel extremely ill,
His tears he barely could restrain,
Whene’er his deftly-wielded drill
Elicited a howl of pain.

“I feel a brute, distressed, ashamed,
Although my work’s so highly fee’d.”
Then “Jove! I’ve got it!” he exclaimed.
“A gramophone is what I need.
If every patient’s favourite air
Was started as he took his seat,
A visit to the dental chair
Would be—by George—a perfect treat.”

An hour within that dentist’s room
Is now as good as any play:
A Sousa march will banish gloom,
Or “Hiawatha” make things gay.
The forceps, once a thing of fear,
Is treated as the best of jokes;
The patient smiles and bends his ear
To catch the strains of “Smoky Mokes”.

And every day from ten to four
(Such is the news that rumour speaks)
You’ll find in queues outside his door
Excited crowds with swollen cheeks.
Perhaps the rumour has its truth:
It may suit some. Myself, I own,
I’d rather have an aching tooth
Than listen to a gramophone.