My “big CDs” stand on the shelf, so faded and so tattered.
Once to me, they were the only things that really mattered.
L.Ps lean there on the right, the singles on the left,
A symbol of an era so forgotten and bereft.
The real CDs, I do allow, have such a sharp, clear sound,
Each note produced is so precise, each chord is so profound.
While my old dusty vinyl always crackles and it grates
The way that I remember did my father’s seventy-eights.
But that old crackly music has a body and a soul,
Although my kids regard it as so freakish and so droll.
Each hiss and jump is like a friend you’ve cherished for so long.
For me, there is no difference ‘tween the crackle and the song.
Once to me, they were the only things that really mattered.
L.Ps lean there on the right, the singles on the left,
A symbol of an era so forgotten and bereft.
The real CDs, I do allow, have such a sharp, clear sound,
Each note produced is so precise, each chord is so profound.
While my old dusty vinyl always crackles and it grates
The way that I remember did my father’s seventy-eights.
But that old crackly music has a body and a soul,
Although my kids regard it as so freakish and so droll.
Each hiss and jump is like a friend you’ve cherished for so long.
For me, there is no difference ‘tween the crackle and the song.
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