The book is a passenger pigeon,
Once numbered in billions of tomes;
Now it is gone from the school house,
The library and all our homes.
Perhaps there's a prisoner somewhere,
Immured behind bars for a stretch,
Who reads a good book in his spare time
And with the cockroaches plays fetch.
But otherwise media dictates
We gaze at a screen 'til our eyes
Turn grey and become rather flaccid,
Like leftover drive-in French fries.
I guess now the forests will prosper,
Since printing is digital, natch.
And if a short circuit should happen,
We'll have to start over from scratch.
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