A musty old book is a treasure to me,
A whole different world of fantasy.
Written in times past in words of old,
Filled with great wit and literary gold.

Every yellow page has a particular musk,
Acquired by years of gathering dust.
And the leather bound cover is showing its age,
But still serves its duty protecting each page.
An old coffee stain mars page one and two,
The last remaining memory of a morning debut.

The book tells a story, but not just inside.
It tells of its history and of where it'd hide.
A library stamp tells of its time on the shelf,
A tear here and there tells of its diminishing health.

It was tarnished and worn when it was sent to it's rest,
In a bookshelf of a gentleman who lives out west.
There is a name on the page, Allen Cornell.
The last man to have read the story it would tell.

That is until I found it myself,
Dusty and hidden on an old antique shelf,
Let the adventures begin as I sit in my chair,
Pull out the book and read it with care.