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Posted By: Max Weder

Rather than prose, auction descriptions could now assume poetic form. With (many) apologies to T.S. Eliot:

The Auction Wasteland

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Auctions out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
PSA slabs with Topps cards.

Oscar kept us warm, covering
The outfield in forgetful grace, feeding
A little life with his afro mane.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Auction's end
With a shower of debt; we overbid in the mastronet,
And went on in sunlight, into the next auction,

And bid at REA, and talked on Net 54 chat.
Bin gar keine Russell, stamm' aus Littell, echt Mel Deutsch OT.
And when we were children, staying with the Topps,
My cousin's, he took Oscar out on a bike,

And I was frightened. He said, Maxie,
Maxie, hold on tight. And down Oscar went.
Into the spokes, there he felt free.
I read, much of the night, and go bid on the psa4