Here they haunt unlettered towns,

in hues of blue and shades of brown,

the ghosts of yellowed storybooks,

with pleading cries and doleful looks;

they wail as we come drifting down.

As we, my friend, come drifting down,

let's listen to the surging sound

of broken bindings, wind-worn pages,

dreadful songs and artful sages.

Here the romance still abounds.

And whirls as we come drifting down.