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.