There is a man who ends his sentences with proper punctuation
the kind of man who has no trouble with pronunciation
His library is filled with varied nonfiction & fiction
His words are refined, only of the highest selection

His days are spent buried in books
Hours upon hours in his quiet nook
The window beside him he never cared look
Adventures and travels, he never took

Content was he with pages endless
His imagination wild, free, limitless
No need to step out where he was defenseless
Words upon words were enough, he says

Of course in time, this man grew old
His only regret was never being bold
Never knew the world was the biggest book he could hold
No stories to tell, only stories already told