Finders Keepers Loosers Weepers

A little bit of pot in a canvas bag
And a wallet full of notes and a piece of rag,
A tooth brush and comb and a letter pack
And a bit of paper with a number on the back,
And a crisp old sheet from a writing pad
Is a folded memory and a poem so sad,
Yet with joy in the lines that live on still
While the love they were for will no longer thrill.
For the cause is lost like the canvas bag
Left by the seat with no name tag.

How can I find that fleeting two?
They won't be in Oxford they were passing through.
I met them in London by the cold roadside
They wanted a lift so I gave them a ride.
They'll pass on down Exeter way
The cost of that lift was dear to pay.
For now I am left with a canvas bag
With a leather flap for a naming tag
All covered with names that student wrote
So when standing so cold at a glance he'd note
The words of his subject written thereon
And his mind would warm as he pondered on
The lecture from where the thought first came,
And the hour of the day when he wrote the name.

Nameless he was and his lady too
Till the old bag was sifted through.
Then a small card came to light
With a name upon it plain to sight.
And I remember the college hall,
Goldsmith's was the name let fall.
Then I wrote this poem and send it down
To the college porter across the town.
I asked him to pin it to the board
Where it might be noticed by the hoard
Of college students passing by
Hoping it might catch the eye.

It did, and so to the English scholar then
I returned the bag again,
With a little bit of pot and a sad love poem
I returned them all to their former home.