It started with one book on the nightstand
Did she really need anything more?
But soon it had snowballed to book after book
Stacked high on the bedroom floor.
But which of the tomes in the teetering pile
Brought about her demise?
Was it the latest paperback thriller
Riddled with Russian Spies?
Or could it be down to that stunning hardback
That she’d had in her sights for a while?
Or maybe that one on the bestseller list
The one that had made her smile.
Or could it be all 8 of the sumptuous books
That were up for that literary prize?
Or that pacey psychological thriller
Based on a web of lies
Or maybe that whole series of books
(The one that everyone owns)
Any one of these beasts could have seen her off
Just how long is this ‘Game Of Thrones’?
Whoever the culprit, she can no longer tell
As she’s drawn her last juddery breath
Trapped by a french flap, wedged under a deckled edge
A most wasteful of bookish deaths.
But what can we glean from this cautionary tale?
We really must protect ourselves!
Do we perhaps buy far less books?
Of course not, we buy more shelves!