The fading hippies wisely smile.

The shrewd professor toasts my style.

I've got 'em all convinced that I'll refuse you.

But though the phone calls draw a yawn,

The letters scattered on the lawn,

They're crazy if they think I'm gonna lose you.

I want you. I want you. I want you, Nobel.

Nobel, I want you.

The Swedes are coming all unglued.

They think I'm feigning slumber.

But I do not mean to be rude,

I've only lost their number.

The Poet labors like the Smith.

His dark enigma sounds like pith.

The Duchess listens, nodding with a flat eye.

Her doomed elixir's thick and pure.

She warns there isn't any cure.

(The reason it's all so obscure is that I

I want you. I want you. I want you, Nobel.)

Nobel, I want you.