The chilling clinker-clatter of a chain
Is the last thing you’d expect
While perusing for Mark Twain;
The leaden jingle-jangle of the links
Resounding through the aisles
As you brush up on Keats.
You may think your steps haunted by a wraith,
A medieval revenant
Imprisoned for his faith,
Or the nightmare creatures of your tales
Are wandering the shelves
With shackles that trail.
But the reality is less of a fear
For an ancient tradition
Continues right here,
The ghosts of the past are confined to their pages
In books chained to shelves
Since the Middle Ages.
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