She called herself a Bibliophage
But you could call her Bib.
She ate up all her toothsome books
Down to spine and ribs.
Bib brought a bookish appetite
To all she ever read.
She’d house a gloried story sandwich
With covers as the bread.
She’d sip from pages of all ages,
Ink coursing through her veins,
Ink sinking down into her feet,
Ink leaving footprint stains.
Bib stewed and steeped in inky tales,
Seeping in her twinkling mind,
Leaving her prints around the world
In the biggest book you’ll ever find.
With scrumptious books at hungry lips
And world at roaming feet,
Bib wrote a wide and worldly story
For someone else to eat.