When I was a bairn I used to dream about libraries
And looking back they're still among my favourite memories
Endless rows of dusty books, a whole world to explore
My heart filled with endless yearning cos I always wanted more
There's a melancholy magic in a box of old books
Lost souls lingering where nobody looks
As you flick through the pages, catch a glimpse of past ages
The thoughts that animated long-forgotten sages
There's a comfort in knowing that there'll always be a home
For each battered and tattered, arcane, obscure tome
And I don't believe in heaven and I never cared for wealth
All I ever hoped for is a place on the shelf