“She’s adding up my pages,
But paying me no wages,”
The poet storms and rages,
For all’s amiss.

“She’s flipped me back and over
From cover unto cover,
But I, I get no clover,
And have no bliss.

“And now in her library
On shelf I frown, not merry,
With medicals contrary
That will not kiss!

“Don’t move! I hear some humming.
It’s she, and she is coming!
She pulls me; yes, I’m something!
Loved lips, like this!

“Now kisses on my pages
Pay more than life-long wages!”
The poet’s dream engages
And naught’s amiss.