The short one....
Water's pouring down the stacks,
it's dripping off the racks,
it's dryness that we lack,
it's soaked the paperbacks.
The long one...
I went to the library,
because all the books, on my shelf, I already have read,
to discover some thief, from the roof, has stolen the lead,
the rain has come in, and the fiction's all soggy,
the carpet in poetry has gotten quite boggy.
Over in Classics, the story's got worse,
there's a Dickens of a deluge, far more than in verse.
The Mill On The Floss has quite washed away,
the same fate has befallen Madame Bovary,
water pours down, it's cold, and I shiver,
A Dry White Season drifts down A Bend In The River,
Lady Chatterley's Lover has taken a ducking,
his mistress we know he'd rather be...
but while The Old Devils, in this flood, really can't cope,
Moby Dick, on the other hand, feels quite at home.
The water pouring in has filled up The Sea,
and The Sea, The Sea,
and The Old Man And The Sea,
and The Sea Of Fertility,
and many other books,
to subaqueous degree.