Toned Out - Rhyming Offhand on Music That's Canned

This music makes my molars hurt,
Envisioning a crisp white shirt,
A misting spray, cold air to spurt,
The drill approaching, "Pain alert!"

I faintly recognize the song,
Although the voice does not belong,
A rap, turned mellow; it's just wrong.
Someone ought to get the gong!

We're climbing to the seventh floor,
For ladies wear and shoes galore,
With background melodies a-roar
That make me want to run next door.

I cannot stand one more refrain,
My incisors are racked with pain.
I'll call my dentist, and complain
For auditory Novocain!