“O Lover-Dover, doover-do,
There is no one, no one but you.”

“And is that all?” You said to me.
“A two-line poem, and not a three?”

I strained so hard to one more write.
I strove all day, all through the night.

“And is that all?” you asked again.
“What’s happ’ning to romantic men?”

I beat my desk, I pulled my hair,
But nothing, nothing, anywhere.

I punched the wall, I threw a fit,
But of that third, no word of it!

I barked at Bingo—he was glad—
You’d yell at me, think I was mad.

And then, a glimmer, light shone through;
For I was looking straight at you.

“O Lover-dover, doover-do,
There is no one, no one like you,
And no one else will I pursue.”

“And is that all?” you said once more,
“A three-line poem, and not a four?”
I pulled you in and shut the door,
And kissed you four times four times four!