To all the books I tried to read
Only to abandon with varying speed
Maybe I was hasty, maybe I was rash
Maybe you got really good in the second half
It wasn't you, it was me. Okay I'm being wry
But I promise I did try
I wasn't in the mood, I don't like prologues
Whatever the reason, they were good ones
I'm sure there are others who appreciate
A slow-moving novel with twists that aren't great
Clothing descriptions that last forever
And circular conversations about the weather
A closed book is like a mystery
You don't know if it's good or crummy
So many books, so little left on the meter
I'd rather take a chance the next book will be better
