I do not own Les Miserables. I am so very, very, very, sorry if you came here looking for a deep and meaningful poem. I did not write a deep and meaningful poem. My only defense for said poem comes from the movie Electric Dreams (1984) which I also do not own. "But Moles, they rhymed." Forgive me.
Victor Hugo now is dead,
But he wrote a book I read,
A book that was rather thick,
We all just call it "the Brick".
I read the Brick one fine year,
My eyes did widen with fear!
The book was long, thick, and dark,
So I read about the Lark.
Out of order, I did read.
Start to end I didn't need.
Lark to Amis to Fantine.
Skipping over those who're mean.
Small details I may have missed,
Who did what or who they kissed,
But I know all of their names,
The guys, the kids, and the dames.
I know Valjean was a crook,
I know Marius could cook,
I know Eponine was nuts,
I know the Amis have cute—
There might be more; I don't know,
Some parts of the book were slow.
Sewers, Waterloo, and such,
Didn't interest me that much.
So I finished at the start,
That's how I read Hugo's art.
From back to middle to front,
What more could I really want?
Perhaps I should try again
And read it from start to end,
But you know that it is true:
I simply do not want too.