he spends each night in my head doing the filing,
he's a conscientious man, he wants things neat and on the dot,
there's been vandalism, damage and the work's been piling,
at times he can't find the file and it's slot.
he is forever searching for it's proper place,
and he keeps me awake at night,
he's working at a furious pace,
but on my life he has made a blight.
he takes the ladder on it's runners,
he clatters about searching, with his serious face,
he keeps them on, the lights and the burners,
the files and dossiers never find their place.
he runs around like a headless chicken,
for ever in decreasing circles,
it's like his arse has been bitten,
for example by snapping turtles.
all alone in the silent hours,
you're alone and you're tormented,
trying to sleep with all your powers,
and you think you shall end up demented.
Peter Strugnell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-librarian/
