The Wolf Of BookStreet

In shadows deep, where stories sleep, on BookStreet's twisting lane, A wolfish grin, a tale within, of Robin Hood's own strain. No gold he craved, no jewels enslaved, his treasure, bound in twine, The whispered lore, the pages pour, of knowledge, ever thine.

By day, a face in bustling space, a humble bookworm's guise, By night he'd roam, a spectral home, beneath the starlit skies. From gilded halls and wealthy walls, where knowledge lay unseen, He'd lift the tomes, defy the norms, a literary Robin keen.

The fat Marquess' pride, a first edition's hide, a tale of battles won, The Duchess' whim, a manuscript, a love story begun, He'd take them all, both big and small, for scholars, young and old, In hidden shelves, for clever elves, the stolen stories sold.

For twopence low, the wisdom'd flow, to students, poets, dreamers, A chance to chase, the lettered maze, through forbidden reams. The constables searched, the merchants lurched, the Wolf they couldn't find, His legend grew, with whispers true, a bookish Robin Hood, they'd mind.

So next you tread on BookStreet's thread, where stories come alive, Remember well, the tales they tell, of the Wolf who made them thrive. For knowledge shared, a burden spared, a fire that sets men free, The Wolf of BookStreet, ever so meek, a literary prodigy.