Madam Bovary

There you sit upon my shelf,

From where you've seen so many moons,

Without ever having your cover lifted.

And I know how you pine for it,

In truth I may too,

But I can assure,

It's not you it's me, and more!

You are no bore,

A lovely woman I'm sure,

But from my point of view,

I only see your back, and your spine, it cracks!

And it crumbles as the dust builds,

Please wipe yourself off, don't just sit still!

My tongue, it escapes me.

I swear its not you, it's me!

You look pristine on your shelf,

With your dust and your cracks,

And your spine in the back,

That unites the dingy yellow pages,

And holds your old musty smell.

But what if it was,

and I did not enjoy you,

Truthfully speaking,

I could not allow my shelf to employ you,

Yet you look so thick,

So sweet and so royal.

It would be a shame,

If the reading did spoil.