I've spent all my money in chasing For books that are costly and rare; I've made myself bankrupt in tracing Each prize to its ultimate lair.
And now I'm a ruined collector, Impoverished, ragged, and thin, Reduced to a vanishing spectre, Because of my prodigal sin.
How often I've called upon Foley, The man who's a friend of the cranks; Knows books that are witty or holy, And whether they're prizes or blanks.
For volumes on paper or vellum He has a most accurate eye, And always is willing to sell‘ em To dreamers like me who will buy.
My purse requires fences and hedges, Alas! it will never stay shut; My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges, My hair is unkempt and “uncut.”
My coat is a true first edition, And rusty from shoulder to waist; My trousers are out of condition, Their “colophon” worn and defaced.
My shoes have been long out of fashion, “Crushed leather” they both seem to be; My hat is a thing for compassion, The kind that is labelled “n. d.”
My vest from its binding is broken, It's what the French call a relique; What I think of it cannot be spoken, Its catalogue mark is “unique.”
I'm a book that is thumbed and untidy, The only one left of the set; I'm sure I was issued on Friday, For fate is unkind to me yet.
My text has been cruelly garbled By a destiny harder than flint; But I wait for my grave to be “marbled,” And then I shall be out of print.
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