John Hartford The Collector
He slips in around you
When you are asleep
Thru attics and closets
He silently creeps
A small piece of cardboard
A bottle cap there
An old ball of string
A long strand of hair
A match from the kitchen
A small piece of comb
With barely a sound
He turns and goes home
The Collector is waiting
To look thru your trash
To handle your beads
And pull at your sash
To read thru your papers
And look thru your room
And gently withdraw
To his own kind of gloom
And then with a sigh
And nothing to say
The Collector goes quietly
A slinking away
Your thimbles are missing
The hammer is gone
The light in the basement
It shouldn't be on
He mеsses with your flowers
And takes an old shoе
Goes thru your scrapbook
Before he is through
Examines your figures
Your cards and your dates
And the The Collector
He just evaporates
He slips it around you
When you are asleep
Goes thru the attic and closet
He silently creeps
A small piece of cardboard
A bottle cap there
And an old ball of string
A long strand of hair
A match from the kitchen
A small piece of comb
With barely a sound
He turns and goes home
