under the endleaf, that's where they sleep:
the book's tiny gremlins. They're no reader's friends.
Late in the night, they'll emerge, and they'll creep --
back through the pages you read and remember,
and move the bits that you best liked away,
when you won't find them again, soon or ever.
Then they'll hide the book you would take with you today.
And they'll lose all your bookmarks, and make careful edits,
increasing the typos and errors per page,
sometimes mixing pages, so you'll think you've read it,
and question your sanity for buying it again.
And they'll laugh and they'll giggle, deep in your bookshelves,
they'll drive away readers, they cry. That's their boast.
But now they are few. They never taught themselves
the parasite's credo: don't kill the host