By Kevin Kelleher. Inspired by Evan Diehl. Based on the true story of Tyler “Bucket” Brown.

Listen up children
and don’t make a sound,
as I tell ye the tale
of old Bucket Brown….

In an age long ago,
when backpacks were clear,
there was just one man
who would conquer fear.

None knew who it was
calling bomb threats in jest.
“I know!” said Admin.
“We’ll punish the rest.”

So came the decree
from on high, far and wide:
“See-through must they be,
so we know what’s inside!”

And like that were the stores
full of mesh bags, and plastic.
Selling packs by the scores
for this measure so drastic.

Cheaply made, worthless,
bad junk was it all.
For as soon as ‘twas packed,
out your things would soon fall.

Yet despite all the trouble,
and dumb backpacks bought,
the elusive threat caller
was still not yet caught.

So it was in this panic,
this sad state forlorn,
one man would stand tall –
and a hero was born.

A nondescript fellow
named after a color.
Until now he’d been mellow,
no different than any other.

Brown had just one desire,
though some think it weird.
In his heart burned a fire
to be vintagely geared.

To make music, to play
So oft dreams delay
for the whimsy of chance!

Midst translucent tote bags
our hero said, “Fuck it.
I’ll carry my shit
in a five gallon bucket.”

So fast did he fly
in the face of Admin,
was he banished, then vanished!
Never heard from again.

But swift as they were,
their verdict came too late.
The people’d seen, they had heard,
and thought the bucket was great.

There ‘rose a great fury
in protest – a tizzy!
A backlash so fierce
Admin reeled; left them dizzy.

With naught a leg left
to stand upon
they were forced to repeal
dread policy anon.

And up from the crowd
roared a cheer and a cry,
a “hurray!” so damn loud
it shook earth and the sky.

Merrily, then,
brought the students to school
backpacks of opacity.
It was the new rule.

The fiend gave up at last
calling threats on the joint.
Admin stopped canc’ling class,
which, of course, was the point.

“But whatever happened,”
they asked with a frown,
“to our noble, brave savior,
our friend, Bucket Brown?”

To this day no one knows,
and not one can say,
what became of that hero
who once saved the day.

Though next time you slink
through the Music Department,
give a listen and think
of a five gal compartment.

For then one might hear,
if a true sympathizer,
Old Bucket Brown
playing his synthesizer.