Here is a poem that I once copied from a Jean Shepherd program who got it from who-knows-where. I passed on to my hygienist. Feel free to pass it on to yours.
Hygienist, in your dental chair I sit,
Without a single care,
Except when tickled by your hair.
I know when you grab the drills,
I need not fear the pain that kills.
You merely make my molars clean
With pumice doped with wintergreen.
So I lean back in calm reflection
With close-up views of your complexion.
And taste the flavor of your thumbs
While you massage my flabby gums.
To me, no woman could be smarter
Than she who scales away my tarter.
And none more fitted for my bride
Than one who knows me from inside.
At least as far as you have gotten,
You see how much of me is rotten.
(Toothbrushes once had a rubber tip on the end of the handle. These were to massage your gums, yourself, as part of your daily brushing routine. It was to stimulate the gums, and some still swear by it.)