a poem by The Cathedral Book Store,
with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a Monday dreary, while we pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of cathedral lore—
While we finished some giftwrapping, suddenly there came a tapping:
“What are your hours?” asked the shopper, tapping at the Book Store’s door.
“Funny you should ask,” we answered. “Henceforth, we’ll be open more—
Monday through Saturday, Ten to Four.”
“What if I need things on Sunday?” asked the patron rather glumly.
“Holy objects can’t be found in shops run by just anyone.
(To be honest, we were flattered to be told that such things mattered!)
“Our selection,” we admitted, “is the best around, bar none.
So, for Sundays, we are keeping hours long since settled on—
Every Sunday, Ten to One.”