In the library, here is Oscar Wilde,
here is Kant,
here is Hitler in Mein Kampf,
here is Tolkien,
here is Tolstoy,
here is Sylvia Plath,
here is Sigmund Freud,
here is Winston Churchill,
their brains at rest upon the racks,
and here, the avid reader awaits,
ready to take them home and relax,
ready to devour the pages of their autobiographies,
and biographies,
and their words with beady eyes,
sat by the fire side,
and not ready,
not ready to face the world again that day or the rain,
but instead,
only tea and biscuits,
beside the fireside,
now, what could be better than that?