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Perhaps this note will make you rue
your dealing me this bugaboo
in bygone days of ga-ga-goo.
Was it by plan you overflew
my nursery? Or did you strew
some bogus fairy dust or brew
into my crib? I’ve still no clue
why you declined to give me two–
a baby tooth, and then, in lieu,
the adult one I’m missing. True,
that mini chewed like déjà vu
for sixty years; but when it grew
a bit askew and brownish-blue,
I knew that Baby’s days were through.
I booked that hotshot Dr. Wu
to yank it and implant, by screw,
a crown into my jaw. Yoo-hoo!–
now that his bill is coming due
(four thousand dollars, entre nous),
this open window is your cue
to grab the bitsy tooth on view  
and leave me loot. An I.O.U.
won’t do. If you don’t pay, I’ll sue.