Thou art more grouchy and intemperate:

Thy copyright protections cause dismay;

From page to page is all too long a wait;

Thy DRM like Heaven’s wrath descends,

Disdaining to reveal a smiling face -

Th’experience all joyfulness upends,

And words imprisoned leave a sour taste.

Thy father, mother, siblings are more kind,

That line my shelves in serried woodpulp rows.

They ask not who I am, nor seek to bind

Me to their side. My irritation grows -

So long as man can read, and eyes can see,

Then books shall bide, and be well rid of thee.