Wishing to build a bookcase of knotless pine

For books of mine that had else stood around in the raw,

I fetched lumber, measured same, and with a saw

Cut, with a hammer nailed it, and upped books in line.

Oh, stuff like Pepys and Pope, Debrett, Defoe,

A Bradbury, a Beowulf, and some bards, some birds,

Two Lambs, two Lears, some second-hands, some thirds,

The Wind In the Willows, Waste Land, and - oh, you know!

But what an experience! I discovered the first

Pronoun, personal I, as well as my and myself.

I solo paid for the pine. It was my sawdust, my shelf,

I personally hammered the nails (mine) and I nursed

My jointures with squares of sandpaper my very own.

My very, very own was the pencil, and the rule.

Mine were the initials carved into every tool,

And for the hell of it on the shelves, mine alone.

Always before, a stranger, or some stray child,

Had sharpened the pencil, cut the boards for shelves,

And hammered the thumbs of several other selves.

It was a game for other players, with people wild.

Oh fabulous day! Away with all those spooks.

Aroint! I can do it all myself. Get lost.

Now that I know the trick, they're double-crossed. I build my own book-cases, and read my own books.