I know some classic books, like Moby Dick,
Are such my education should include.
But anytime I start a tome that thick,
I always find I’m just not in the mood.
My eyes glaze over, my brain turns to brick;
The inner pages may as well be glued.
I’d rather watch the latest action flick,
About some kick-ass chick with attitude.
But lately, when we lie in bed at night,
I tend to face your faceless hairy dome.
Though lovely, haloed by the nightstand light,
The face I miss is buried in some tome.
Perhaps if I read more we’d talk about it.
The mere thought makes me sleepy, so I doubt it.
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