There you are at the bottom of the pile
You are an unloved and rusty relic
No one will touch you 'cause you're out of style
With some unknown disease you must be sick
Your pages curled like a scornful old tongue
So foreboding in your wrinkled casing
No wonder you are like a song unsung
You're the dragon that no knight is chasing
In eager hands you shatter like thin glass
Your smell oppresses the nose like a cloud
It sure doesn't smell like freshly-mown grass
In the sea of voices, yours is not loud
Yet I find myself intrigued by all this
I cannot stop making your pages kiss.