Multiply and there's nothing I
Can do but shuffle out the old and shuffle in the new but
It hurts to drag them from the shelves
The ones I'll never read again
Consigning them to Goodwill stores and hospital wards where
They may gather dust for forty years
Oh how I
Miss the books I sold to used bookstores in the past
They were mine, they should have remained mine but
I had no room
Even were I a billionaire with ten libraries
There would never be enough room
Paging Dr. Freud
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