Summer Pirate

Douglas Adams was his name, introducing Ford Prefect brought his fame.

The Catcher in the Rye was Holden's journey to New York City.

A rooftop perch in the sun on a towel, I claim.

Butterflies dance around flowers in the breeze, profanity so gritty.

Emily Bronte borrowed another name in her vagrants, venomous, vengeful tale.

Hot sun, hot sand, hot air, hot long fetch carry the pages.

Dualing settings, characters, and hearts leap forward but shan't prevail.

Too baked, too course, too heavy, these characters of hers give me grief.

A rose is a rose unless it is championed by my little prince.

How many places can a volume follow me, my mother is distraught.

As I sway in a hammock, I grew up a little then and haven't recaptured that bit of innocence.

In the daylight on a deckchair, the warmth of the bleachers, the sway of a swing, use a strap make a sling how I've been taught.

You write it, I'll read it; it's a riot being a book pirate.

Everyone should try and find their summer fun; without a book by my side, I'll be disquiet.