In the Bookhouse Now

Books upon books
upon books upon books on
books that are on
books
on bookes...

Warden makes the walks
Us prisners don't do talks.
We can't. Warden stole
our mouths when we came here
with some sort of spell...

The stenching of rotten tomes and woodden houseframes;
the stenching of freshly tomes and wodden houseframes;
the stenching of lacerated paperwhipped skins.
The moans, O' the moans! of us!
Imprisoned
here for
57 consecutive life sentences...
O' woe! O. Henry! O' terror! O'Neil!