Walking one day in in the rain I saw a sight to make me turn again A bug house made for dubious need Lined with books only humans read In truth it made me stop and stare There are no bugs that I'm aware Who feast upon such cultured fare As Plato, Yates, Tolstoy, and Jane Eyre So many great writers of note! What to do but give them shelter of my coat Happily would I give the clothes off my back To save them from becoming beetle snacks Dear Shakespeare who put you here? I'm sure the fool had no idea! And would doubtless take it hard To find he'd tossed the immortal bard What brings you Sir Walter To this mired, ignoble alter What wretch concentred all in self Could throw away such riches, such wealth What stranger reading Rudyard- Crying 'rubbish!' Condemned him to this graveyard? Who didn't see the things we see Because he's not like Kip and me I won't say what other gems I found Left to rot into the ground I took them; don't consider it theft To take up riches someone else- freely- has left
This poem was inspired by true events. I did indeed see a bug house titled ‘bug library’ in which a treasure trove of books had been left. It was my good fortune to find them and be able to rescue them, but whatever pleasure attained was mitigated by the despair at the depths to which my country has sunk. It reminded me of Aldous Huxley whose fear that there would be no need to ban books because no one would care to read them seems to have come to fruition; it really is a brave new world.