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Motion of Disaster

Well, well, well,
You're a broken record,
You spin around,
Even in good weather.
 
You're a round sort of friend,
Although you're not fat,
You're groovy and loud,
You play songs, you're black.
 
No one seems angry,
Although your time has passed,
Tapes and CD's,
Laid you down on the mat.
 
Those ones and zeros,
Not an analog thing,
Clearer and richer,
Those CD's are king.
 
Disaster in motion,
Motion of disaster,
You're very old,
And out of the picture.
 
Thirty-and one third,
In the twenty-first,
From long ago,
From your date of birth.
 



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