Four Better and Far Worse

I swore to love four better, and far worse.
Results have been, I must confess, uneven.
I asked my love: but honey, why the curse,
the oath we took had made these loves a given.
They get more rapt attention, it is true,
and visits are as conjugal as needed,
but none are loved as well as I love you,
excepting as the oath demands, I pleaded.
Thrown out, alone, I'm wondering the street,
write poems, though it's not a panacea.
I should have told her it's autocomplete.
To make and print our vows was her idea.
It could have been four letter and four words.
The kind they bleep when they present awards.