Our eyes met in the library, I felt a tiny spark,

she blushed and looked so lovely, young and shy,

a book was in her hand, a thing by Mary Higgins Clark,

I walked up to her, smiled and whispered: “Hi.”

Her lips were pink and innocent, she wore an artist’s smock,

I took the book and said: “She’s good, I know,”

our fingers touched, I saw she felt the same electric shock,

I felt an urge for Edgar Allan Poe.

She smiled and showed me pure white teeth, I took her by the wrist,

then led her into Fiction A to D,

with Charlotte Bronte looking on, our lips met as we kissed,

beneath a book by Edward Bellamy.

It seemed a little darker in Non-Fiction: Potted Plants,

we moved there and she gave my hand a squeeze,

as time stood still we held each other, locked in soft romance,

amongst a hundred books on native trees.

We moved into the shadows under Fiction K to P,

she dropped the smock and gave a little smile,

I had to have her there and then, right in the library,

watched on by Muir and Ernie Howard Pyle.

I held her naked body, as she nibbled on my ear,

we kissed and slowly went down to our knees,

she gave a little moan and fell back into Edward Lear,

I heard somebody whisper: “Quiet, Please!”

She wriggled like a bookworm, and we moved on through the racks,

she bit my lip on top of R. L. Stine,

we fell right through Accounting, landed on Financial Facts,

by Helen Cody Wetmore she was mine.

The next day we moved in for good, at Hobbies: Build a Boat,

we made a home from books by Stephen King,

I loved what she wore underneath her big old overcoat:

my favorite subject – not a goddamn thing!

I ravished her in Children’s Books, while J. K. Rowling frowned,

in History we loved to Charlemagne,

the atlases and maps made quite a bouncy little mound,

I’m sure we drew applause from old Mark Twain.

We romped around Biographies, the Moon was our Balloon,

we loved in Cooking Books and Modern Life,

the Music section had us dancing to a lovers’ tune,

in Classics she agreed to be my wife.

We married very privately, in Fiction T to X,

we had no wish for church or wedding bells,

no honeymoon was needed, we had loads of spots for sex,

right there with friends like Verne and H. G. Wells.

We’re happy in the library, and now she’s overdue,

it’s nice to think that soon we'll have a child,

we’re choosing names, perhaps James Joyce, or Virgil, or Sun Tzu,

or maybe something cool, like Oscar Wilde.

They think that we’re eccentric, and we get some funny looks,

but really, living here is not so hard,

and think about our baby, with a million reference books,

the first thing that he’ll get’s a library card!

more of my FUNNY POEMS here