The Secret Behind the Record That Defies Time and Trends
I live with my muse in a music box.
I live like a duke in a juke box.
I sit within walls of sound in my bedsit.
I turn my factory 45s churning out hit after hit.
Feel as close to a return paradise ticket there and back
as a record player needle to a record track.
As fictitiously far away from human contact
as a ghost-written autobiography to fact.
Listening to your voice in my flatlet
is like eavesdropping the one next door
through a paper thin record sleeve wall
while reading sleeve notes to a kindred spirit.
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