She on the Twentieth
   Street liveth
In a plush penthouse;

And I in my own rustic crib
  Live by my ancient nib;
And for love, I'm no mouse.

The dollybird useth iThings
  Those by Apple made,
While I by my little things
  Run my blessed trade.

Though no kingly life
I do presently live
Nor have now fortune and fame
      Great, high queenly dame;

And I mayn't a costly gadget
        At the moment avoid
Like that dear iPhone or tablet;
Yet make not my affection void:

        I can be a commoner,
     But do need nay a coroner.