A narrative poem about the lifespan of books.

Where is my book?
Do you know where my book is?
I can't find it anywhere. Hmph.
Maybe Mummy or Daddy has it?
But it's my book, not theirs.
I want my book back.


I love storytime.
It's great fun sat cross-legged
on the carpet with a glass of milk and cookies
and a lovely little book.
Daddy is the best at stories - he does the voices.
I wish I knew where my book was,
then I'd do the voices for you:
I'm quite good at them you know, Daddy is teaching me.


I've had the book for as long as 
            I can remember - and my memory is good -
and it lives where it belongs on my bookshelf
along with not a lot else.
It's a big red book, really thick,
almost as thick as one of Mummy's books
but not quite. I'm not as good as her yet. But I know most of the words now.

The End

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