Record collecting belongs to obsessives.
No basement dweller or salty statistician
I meet the criteria’s main missive
By holding my spot through attrition.

My main connection, with his bins,
Delivers his fix to all in the market square.
He plays music that drown out the din
Of passersby who escape the lair –

Mainly ‘60s rock – I admit is my first love.
But I also found a lone Jimmie Rodgers
Whose Train Whistle Blues shines above
For its songs of hard times soft lodged

The sellers’s wife probably enjoys her quiet Sundays
But, with new vinyl, they’re my own special day