Here at the book fair you’ll find lots of prose,
And a volume of poetry or two I suppose.
But the rarest of books that you won’t likely see,
Is a book that was written that could never be.
It’s the story of someone who never was there,
Who lived on a planet without any air.
There was no one to notice that he had no form,
‘Cause the absence of matter out there was the norm.
There weren’t any readers, or writers for that matter,
There were no computer or typewriter keys to clatter.
There wasn’t a publisher, there wasn’t a store,
No Amazon, Ebay or even ‘net furthermore.
It never existed, there wasn’t a Sun,
A moon or stars, there weren’t anyone.
Their lives were not lived, nor even began.
They never pondered ‘what the heck’s a Bean Gan?’
The drama, the sorrow, the joy that went by,
Never existed, and nor did the sky.
There were no good times, and none that were bad.
In fact there were no times at all to be had.
Perhaps you might think that’s ineffably grim.
But if I might venture out on a limb,
I daresay it’s not really that bad at all.
Perhaps that tome’s in the bookstore near the mall.