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.