The Old Books

They were beautiful, the old books, beautiful I tell you. You've no idea, you young ones with all those machines; There's no point in telling you; you wouldn't understand. You wouldn't know what the word beautiful means. I remember Mr Archibald—the old man, not his son— He said to me right out: 'You've got a beautiful hand, Your books are a pleasure to look at, real works of art.' You youngsters with your ball-points wouldn't understand. You should have seen them, my day book, and sales ledger: The unused lines were always cancelled in red ink. You wouldn't find better kept books in the City; But it's no good talking: I know what you all think: 'He's old. He's had it. He's living in the past, The poor old sod.' Well, I don't want your pity. My forty-seventh Christmas with the firm. Too much to drink. You're staring at me, pitying. I can tell by your looks. You'll never know what it was like, what you've missed. You'll never know. My God, they were beautiful, the old books.