Your picture which I have in hand,

By itself could never stand;

For in dimensions, it does lack

The third and foremost of the pack.

It will not kiss me on command;

It cannot love me on demand;

And warmth, it never can imbue

To this poor soul who yearns for you.

Torture me no more, my sweet;

Pictures can't such passions treat;

And if they burn as mine do now,

They need to be relieved somehow.

Thus, to this truth, I do adhere,

That only you, my Doctor dear,

In three dimensions, can you clear

This burning which is so severe.

So fly to me - do not delay;

I cannot wait another day;

And free me from the torments of

This raging three-dimensioned love.