My Books


The books I love are everywhere,

Musty , dusty, doodled, and bare.

There are the old, and  the new,

Sometimes too many, sometimes too few.

 

I sit amidst so many,

they can be read without a penny.

But, I have very little time to spare.

I can do no more than just glare.

 

Yet, never do they diminish in my ponderings,

They are a treat to my mind’s wanderings.

One of these days with my book the time I shall find,

And then the world will be left behind.

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