Webster's Dictionary

At my house nobody looks

At too many heavy books.

War and Peace remains unread;

Solzhenitzyn causes dread.

Trollope in his many tomes,

Wordworth with his trailing poems,

Plutarch's Lives and Chaucer's Tales –

All are viewed like garden snails.

And what's sad – and even scary –

Is my Webster's Dictionary.

Ponderous and leather-bound –

Full of wisdom pound for pound –

I haven't seen its pages since

Lighters had to use real flints.

Many winter evenings I

As a child its lullaby

Of fine words would softly chant

'til towards sleep I'd start to slant.

Nowadays to turn a page

Causes grief and downright rage;

Everyone is so dead-set

To gaze upon the Internet.

And so to dust my Webster turns,

Joined by chatty Robert Burns.

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