When wise Koheleth long ago—
Though when and how the pundits wrangle—
Complained of books, and how they grow
And twist poor mankind's brains a-tangle,
He did not dream the fatal fangle
To such a pitch would e'er extend,
And such a world of paper mangle—
Of making books there is no end.

The poets weep for last year's snow,
About the porch the schoolmen dangle,
The owl-like eyes of science glow
O'er arc, hypothenuse, and angle;
The playwrights mouth, the preachers jangle,
The critics challenge and defend,
And Fiction turns the Muses' mangle—
Of making books there is no end.

Where'er we turn, where'er we go,
The books increase, the bookmen brangle:
Our bookshelves groan with row on row
Of nonsense typed in neat quadrangle.
Better to burn the lot and twangle
An honest banjo; better tend
To ride and box and shoot and angle—
Of making books there is no end.