
My love runs by like a day in June,
	And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
	In the pathway or the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start
	Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart --
	And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
		-- Dorothy Parker, part 3
