The Book Hunter

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.