When no value’s placed on autographs,
And when in time my couplets
And their abandoned epitaphs
Have finally called it quits

And placed their eminent domain
With some blas_ bookiniste
Prone to mise-en-Seine
(Where poetry is ex libris’d),

When that day comes, never mind:
Feats continue without Guinness,
And books survive, although unsigned,
Because they’re bound, in fact, within us.