"On whose words shall I sup tonight?"
He asks the marble bard
who sits between the treasured tomes;
a silent, watchful guard.

"Who shall sing me to my sleep?
Dear Keats on St Agnes' Eve?
Or shall I let Suetonius speak
of Caesars much deceived?"

He runs his fingers up and down
the tender tattooed spines,
inhaling perfumes, each unique;
a thousand concubines.

"A ghostly tale from M.R. James,
an atmospheric treat,
accompanied by tawny port
would make my sup complete.

Why do you look so solemn, bard?
Do you suggest once more
that I haunt the corridors
of draughty Elsinore?

Very well," the bibliophile
sighed with merry sorrow.
"For what I don't consume tonight
I'll breakfast on the morrow."