Auto-Da-Fé

We're ridding ourselves of books we'll never again read nor ever again refer to. This inspired a little poem from me:

Act of Faith

The Bookman came to town today,

and all the books are gone;

each disappeared without delay

from a pile upon the lawn.

The Bookman lit the only way

one over such flame should fawn,

for stakes are high, they ever say,

when arise book-sprites anon.

Auto-da-fé,

auto-da-fé,

burn me a way

with an auto-da-fé.

The Bookman had with great care sawn

thin slips of wood strewn thick through hay

that each might serve as lowly pawn

in games unhallowed players play.

The Bookman smiled when broke the dawn,

for his long night-work might he stay,

which drew from him a unique yawn

that from the truest night divulged the day.

Auto-da-fé,

auto-da-fé,

burn me a way

with an auto-da-fé.

We didn't actually burn any books, despite the poem's lyrics.