O Deary dear, my dear,
Why do you pant so fast?
You’ve only two more hundred poems
And you’ll catch up at last.

I’m slowing down, but four today,
And you’ll have naught to do
But sharpen pencils—oh, what play!
Then write a poem or two.

I tell you what, since you work well
And don’t deride the boss,
I’ll write just two for two days’ spell.
Promise you won’t get cross!

But if I see you sneak away
And let my poems lie still,
I’ll write six hundred poems a day,
And you’ll be panting still!

O Deary dear, my dear,
Why do you pant so fast?
You’ve only two more hundred poems
And you’ll catch up at last!