He started to woo her in a most peculiar way,
The Librarian’s dress was a fawnish shade of grey,
The books he was to borrow he would surely never read,
They were of an intellectual calibre, he hoped that she would see.

He planned to take her home to bed some day,
He’d smooth her goose bumped skin whilst she lay,
But the unspoken truth they both knew,
Whilst he’d dream of her often she would forget in just ten minutes.

Her beauty has not truly been seen till her beauty’s been seen by his tired eyes,
Her tears have not truly been dried till her tears have been dried on his tattered shirt sleeves.
Her body has not truly been stripped till her clothes have been ripped by his nail bitten fingers,
Her beauty has not truly been seen till her beauty’s been seen by his tired eyes.

He was beginning to irritate so she made him go away,
The smallest cruellest insults she ignored his subtle ways.
The deftly silence let him know his efforts were in vain,
Did the thoughts ever exist and if so could he find them.
(and oh, oh the loneliest of nights, he will never hold her tight, he will never kiss her eyelids.)