The time has come, the bookworm said,
to tell in metric strings
of writers famous, poets dead,
and muse-inspired springs:
A reader lured to author’s lair
saw shelves of buckled tomes,
with pages torn from wear and tear,
stacks wanting a new home.
“My works” his host boasted with pride
“span all of Dewey’s system!”
More books spilled from the shady side,
where brilliant sunlight missed them.
“I stand in awe!” declared his fan;
“Your name will be immortal,
compared with Shakespeare, Thomas Mann,
inscribed on each school’s portal.”
He bowed and left and went his way.
Time aged this poem’s hero.
A sandstorm buried his display,
left nothing but a … 0 …