A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore,
Without a single wash since.
His venerable hand to take,
A cleansing sneeze upon my breast,
An itchy eye or two, will make
The pleasure of his company.
His dusty opinions to inspect,
His numerous mites to flick,
As he crinkles spores to air,
Is enough to make you sick.
What tales of Plato he’ll cough
Into your face, and silky residue
Of Dante’s thoughts leave
In hand: Those are the stories for you.
His presence is enchantment,
Leading to hospitalization.
You beg him to go far away,
But his vellum head sprays and sprays.