I, admittedly, once loved the feckless four floors
Unfortunately, they’ve become an object I quite abhor
There seems to be no way around it
I now hate the trove of profound wit
A week ago, I could easily say, “There’s no better place to write a story”
However, a boycott has become essentially mandatory
All my hours in the green chairs rendered hollow
I migrate to the din of Liz’s, a tough pill to swallow
This isn’t by choice, please understand
The library itself has forced my hand
Five score and two weeks ago
I checked out a book, full of gusto
A mere seven days have passed
Since I have been informed that that book shall be my last
Unless, of course, I’d cough up some cash
For those greedy hogs to replenish their stash
According to them, I never gave back
Those three hundred pages, which belong in their stack
I don’t believe them, and I won’t give in
They will not ever be having my Benjamin
