Among My Auctioneers

eBay once sold me such glories—
I placed my bids without care;
My house has only three stories
And I need to sit down somewhere:

There’s no room left for me—
No floor space do I see;
I live in sad debris
From all my auctioneers;

Hot Jazz Jubile

I’m making quite a fuss—
My postman wears a truss;
You ought to hear him cuss
At all my auctioneers;

It’s anybody’s guess
What lies within this mess;
I sure could do with less
But I’m a major pack rat;

Once sunlight filled this room
But now the spreading gloom
Looks just like King Tut’s tomb
Thanks to my auctioneers.
I miss my wide-open spaces—
Tunnels and paths now hold sway;
But I just keep stacking purchases
That may fall upon me someday;


With junk my home is rife—
It’s not an easy life;
Can’t even find my wife
Among my Souvenirs;

Books spill out on the floor—
And other things galore—
And I’m still buying more
From all my auctioneers;

I own a complete set
Of all there is to get;
If I don’t own it yet
Then it’s not worth having;

That I must win each lot
Even with all I’ve got
Is just a fiendish plot
Among my auctioneers.

Andy Senior is the Publisher of The Syncopated Times and on occasion he still gets out a Radiola! podcast for our listening pleasure.

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