If it’s fun to take books from the bookcase, If you really believe it’s worth while To carry them out to the kitchen And build them all up in a pile, Why isn’t it just as agreeable then To carry them back to the bookcase again?
If it’s fun to make marks with a pencil In books that one cares for a heap; To tear out the pages from volumes One likes and is anxious to keep, Why isn’t it pleasure to put on the hummer A magazine read and discarded last summer?