I hate to place them down so low
Where the bunnies are made of dust
Decorating each folio
As wrought iron is by rust.
It spells neglect and spells decay
And my unwillingness to stoop
When with some effort I might play
To read the volumes in that group.
But priorities will rearrange,
In following my fickle thoughts,
And order seems like something strange
When I run out of storage spots.
So now the muse makes me confess
That dusty books were meant to be
And all my reading is a mess
Which tells me that I need wee Elves
To sterilize those bottom shelves!