Her inscription is so delicately pure,
That I shall never dare once to read her.
Though my eyes with aggravation grind,
To peak beneath her modest bind,
My ego as stern and as black as the stallion,
Restrains all compassion untamed for companion.
She pleads to be touched; she longs to be opened,
Still my attention remains unawokened.
The shelf she shall stay forever more,
Her fore-edge un-sore, her pages un-tore,
‘Til the day she falls mute on the floor,
Then might her story I lust to explore.
But to do so would only implore,
That I would be bound to burn the whore.
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