"Come back!" you'd plead with eyes so bright, 

"Your verse and song give such delight!" 

I'd rush to please, my heart aflame, 

Yet the next year, I’d not find my name. 

Your spine so straight, your pages hard, 

My fingers traced your every word.

Your font fit so perfectly, 

The way your margins made me breath!

Your binding tight, your cover slick, 

Your chapters made my pulse tock tick! 

I thumbed you gently with finesse, 

Yet my advances bore no success!

For ten long years this dance we swayed, 

One year wooed, the next year waylaid. 

Your invitation sets my heart aflutter,

 Your silence left me in the gutter.

​

You've brought me back for BookTen's bash, 

One final fling of grand panache!

But whispers say when curtains close, 

My name won't grace next year's shows.

Then came the truth—oh bitter pill! 

You never loved me, you never will! 

For you're a Festival, not flesh, 

My heart caught up in your bookish mesh!

A town cannot return a kiss, 

Paper cuts—my only bliss. 

My footnotes yearned for contents true, 

But festivals cannot say "I do."

So here's to your anniversary dear Featherston, 

You've booked me solid, left me stunned. 

This love affair was doomed, alas— 

When I fell for your Booktown…sass.