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She burns books in the back yard
charred pages dance across the cobbles
and the smoke stings my eyes in the doorway,
jammed ajar with the full works of Proust.

Nothing is sacred son
Arties do not picket the pulpers,
They weep in mirrors and lick the salt
from their cheeks.

Books make good weapons
Folded over with the spine cracked,
Driven down into bone or hooked
to prise sense from the stupid.

Don't believe the hype son
Paper is cheap and words are cheap,
Ideas are free and often bad
Fashions rust and books build good walls.

She burns books in the back yard
charred pages dance across the cobbles,
and the smoke stings my eyes in the doorway
but I won't lick the salt from my cheeks