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Poem	I am a mild man, you'll agree, But red my rage is, When folks who borrow books from me Turn down their pages. Or when a chap a book I lend, And find he's loaned it Without permission to a friend - As if he owned it. But worst of all I hate those crooks (May hell-fires burn them!) Who beg the loan of cherished books And don't return them. My books are tendrils of myself No shears can sever . . . May he who rapes one from its shelf Be damned forever.
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