I've Spent All My Money In Chasing For Books That Are Costly And Rare; I've Made Myself Bankrupt In Tracing Each Prize To Its Ultimate Lair. And Now I'm A Ruined Collector, Impoverished, Ragged, And Thin, Reduced To A Vanishing Spectre, Because Of My Prodigal Sin. How Often I've Called Upon Foley, The Man Who's A Friend Of The Cranks; Knows Books That Are Witty Or Holy, And Whether They're Prizes Or Blanks. For Volumes On Paper Or Vellum He Has A Most Accurate Eye, And Always Is Willing To Sell 'Em To Dreamers Like Me Who Will Buy. My Purse Requires Fences And Hedges, Alas! It Will Never Stay Shut; My Coat-Sleeves Now Have Deckle Edges, My Hair Is Unkempt And "Uncut." My Coat Is A True First Edition, And Rusty From Shoulder To Waist; My Trousers Are Out Of Condition, Their "Colophon" Worn And Defaced. My Shoes Have Been Long Out Of Fashion, "Crushed Leather" They Both Seem To Be; My Hat Is A Thing For Compassion, The Kind That Is Labelled "N. D." My Vest From Its Binding Is Broken, It's What The French Call A Relique; What I Think Of It Cannot Be Spoken, Its Catalogue Mark Is "Unique." I'm A Book That Is Thumbed And Untidy, The Only One Left Of The Set; I'm Sure I Was Issued On Friday, For Fate Is Unkind To Me Yet. My Text Has Been Cruelly Garbled By A Destiny Harder Than Flint; But I Wait For My Grave To Be "Marbled," And Then I Shall Be Out Of Print.