There once was a man in a little town in Maine,
who was thought by its residents to be quite a bit insane.
This man had a habit, quite a strange one to boot,
of which none in the town had ever yet found the root.
Though the town’s librarian, and a capable one indeed,
he had a noticeable habit of always pausing to read.
With a book in hand Mr. Derby would often linger,
and continue reading from the place kept by a finger.
No bookmark had he, when a finger could suffice,
though he had many to choose from, all equally as nice.
He would linger by benches, by the beach when the tide retreats,
by the playground or the store, even the middle of random streets.
He would stare at the book, enthralled by its words.
He would stand so still, he’d be encircled by birds.
One would squat on his hat as he stood, frozen and mute,
others danced in feathery delight, sometimes pecking at his suit.
This startling state of affairs confounded the townsfolk,
and eventually Mr. Derby became the town’s longest running joke.