Counting the particles of food between my teeth

I need a dentist, I sing.

Oh lord I need a dentist.

They say the Brits have awful teeth, well I’m the poster child.

I look like Shane McGowan’s lovechild.

Oh to have those Osmond-sparkling teeth.

I brush every day but my teeth don’t magically turn into a perfect set.

Or a rabbit.

Or a rabbi.

Or a Robbie.

Or a Ronald McDonald acid trip featuring Grimace in lingerie.

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