The Bookman lived high on a cloud
in a little hut of stone;
the rest of Heaven was too loud,
so there he lived alone.
He spent day after peaceful day
with pen and ink in hand
and wrote us tales both sad and gay
of far and distant lands.
The Bookman first appeared when hope
was hidden in the Dark,
and words were twisted like a rope
without a kind remark.
And so he spun his letters
and he wove them into words;
we felt so much the better
when his stories were absurd.
And when the Darkness faded
and all turned to silver glass,
the Bookman found a shaded
spot and lay to rest at last.
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