Ode to a Torn Page

Barbaric traditions beckon and plead
For the souls of men and women alike.
All with scripture must be neatly agreed
To keep their heads from the tip of a pike.
But patriot pagans are equally nuts
With their hatred of all foreign vagrants.
Cravings of violence churn in their guts
To burst forth brutal populist fragrance.
Just how do they afford those biker tattoos
Or veins pumped full of heroin and meth
All as fodder for the recovery blues
About some musician's premature death?
It's as if lives exist for poor choice
With lucid thought the most elusive sort
Which gives stupidity the loudest voice
Both in and out of superior court.
So give me the order of library life,
As I suspect there lay the true Eden,
And placidly score it with a small fife
Since gentle music is nice when I'm read' in.
Yes homes must be made for everyone's books,
A waterproof place out of the weather,
Where they can be bound for rustic good looks
With the toughest of imitation leather.
And how about pages no one can tear
Or covers of fireproof book cloth
For library sackings are too much to bear
For true believers OR civil Visigoth.
That list of sackings is painfully long
But that's what you get from ignorant hordes
Whose brows are beat by a demagogue throng
Chomping at the bit to be everyone's Lords.  
Yet pride only quickens the reaper's blade
Which you don't have to tell the well read meek!
But their vogueishness is starting to fade
Much like ink in Alexandrian Greek.