Monday, June 20, 2011

Poetry Monday

Change the narrator's gender and this poem is Me!

Book Lover

Robert Service

I keep collecting books I know

I'll never, never read;

My wife and daughter tell me so,

And yet I never heed.

"Please make me," says some wistful tome,

"A wee bit of yourself."

And so I take my treasure home,

And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;

They jam and over-spill.

They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"

"some day," I say, "I will."

So book by book they plead and sigh;

I pick and dip and scan;

Then put them back, distrest that I

Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,

my Gibbon and Defoe;

To savour Swift I'll never learn,

Montaigne I may not know.

On Bacon I will never sup,

For Shakespeare I've no time;

Because I'm busy making up

These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,

While Stendhal makes me snore;

Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,

And Balzac is a bore.

I have their books, I love their names,

And yet alas! they head,

With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,

My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well

If I commit a crime,

And get put in a prison cell

And not allowed to rhyme;

Yet given all these worthy books

According to my need,

I now caress with loving looks,

But never, never read.

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