O noble disc of grooves both black and round,
Thy cardboard sleeve doth smell of musty dreams.
I dig through crates where dusty gems are found,
Each crackle sings of bygone sonic schemes.
The thrill of thrift shops—oh, my beating heart!
A dollar bin may hide a treasure rare.
A polka album? Sure, I’ll call it art—
Even warped jazz can make me stop and stare.
I boast of pressings “first” to all my friends,
Though half my finds sound like a frying pan.
The needle pops, the music squeaks and bends,
Yet still I cheer, a happy vinyl stan.
For digital may sparkle, crisp and clean,
But vinyl hums with ghosts of what has been.