The Man with the Bag

When I was a young man, I traveled around I went by the sea, by the air, and the ground And when I saw something I thought was absurd I’d write it all down in a book word by word But the strangest by far (though I try not to brag) Is my tale of a silly old man and his bag: One day my travels, they found me in Rome And a man with a bag shouted “good sir, buy a tome!” Now the bag of this man, I can say for a fact By the size of its swell it was really quite packed I hadn’t heard what he said, my head deep in thought “Were you speaking to me sir?” I asked, looking distraught The man with the bag spoke again: “Of course it was you to whom I was talking!” “But you chose not to listen, you kept right on walking” Still too frightened to speak, I looked at the man This was foolish I know, I should have just ran His hand I first noticed, a bandana ‘round the palm And by the sheen of his lips, he used beeswax balm I then pursed my lips, again deep in though The man started to shout, my attention not caught “Cease staring lad! You’re freaking me out!” “And with your face scrunched like that, you seem like a trout!” I finally opened my fool mouth to speak But then something hard struck me right on the cheek My eyes closed from the blow, I was taken aback When opened again, gone were the man and his pack On the ground was a book, no doubt thrown from the bag Its front was quite dirty, and I lacked a good rag I wiped off the mess with my green scarf from back home And I finally saw the cover of the dusty old tome “Friendly Birds” was the title, spelled by letters in red But this could not distract from the pain in my head This strange day in Rome was back in September (The exact date I’m sure I’ll never remember) But even when I’m old and my skin starts to sag I’ll always remember the man with the bag