Ode to Taschen

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Behold, gentle reader, this odd-rhyming storium
Of bookselling’s classiest sassiest emporium

You enter to see the most avant-garde shelves
Philippe Starck dreamed them up, then installed by gay elves

Now gaze at the stacks, and try to keep stable
As these books are worthy of God’s coffee table

Nature engravings of ancient anemones
Hollywood photos of movie-star frenemies

Wooden boxes of Neutra, clock-books of Dali
And thousand-pound tomes to Muhammad Ali

From Buñuel to Kubrick — ev’ry film persona
Plus Gaudi’s cathedral in fair Barcelona

BUT — a peek at the price tags will make you say shucks
Each of these glossy bricks costs you hundreds of bucks

Oh, who can afford books to Heaven adorn?
Oh, wait, here’s a clue — they sell Seventies porn!

A marvelous store, unaffordable treasures
Pays the rent selling floppy-boobed sexual pleasures

Raunch from all eras stocks this bibliotheque
Volumes and volumes of jiggly, old sex

Big bush-ed nude hippies, camp erotic romances
Tom of Finland‘s fun boys have thick snakes in their pantses

If you fetish breasts, it’s a shame-free way to see ’em
You’re not in a peep show, you’re in a museum

Sex-dressed-as-art, beside design and fashion
Who could deny this fine publisher’s passion
Arousing all senses is the genius of Benedikt Taschen

Now say goodbye to our bookseller’s wondrous selection
Go in seeking knowledge, walk out with erection

— Matt Selman