You’ve seen them at book fairs and in secondhand records stores. The men with the unwashed hair and the big, bulging bags…
Once upon a midday dreary, I was sitting, bored and weary,
Sitting in my record store,
When I heard a furtive scrabbling,
Something muttering, babbling, dabbling,
From a corner of my store,
‘Twas a Bagman, that’s for sure!
“You there, Bagman, smelly ragman,
Rifling through the LP store.
Are you sifting, raking, drifting,
Fingering all my discs in store?”
Quoth the Bagman, “Nevermore!”
Then from out the racks of vinyl,
Songs deleted, finished, final,
Came the Bagman through the door,
Clutching discs of Jefferson Airplane,
Carl Santana, Erland Berstaine,
Forgotten artists fit to bore,
Bring the Bagman to my store.
Came the Bagman, smoking fag man,
Roundly framed in my shop door,
Clutching manky tapes and vinyl,
Paintings of Duchamp’s urinal,
Quoth the Bagman, “Art galore!”
“Bagman, gagman, fucking hagman,
Why did you pick my record store?
Go and eye your bust of Pallis, your Aunt Alice,
But get fuck out of my store!”
So he left complaining, blaming,
Clutching Patti Smith and more,
Past the checkout, past my loud shout,
Running quickly to the door,
Quoth the Bagman, “Pay no more!”