The plastic tip, excepts the tones,
Spinning groves, casts with stones,
I feel the Soul in my bones,
And the music comes through stolen speakers,

In the middle of sound, just before it ends,
The moment will come, when my mind sends,
A chemical of sorts, to deal with the bends,
And I smile, breath and tap dirty sneakers,

Records spin, on tested speeds,
Music speaks of Souls and deeds,
Of spotted lives, a heart that bleeds,
And it tests the ears of condemning seekers,

We knowingly, willingly put it on,
Records, faces, and wigs of con,
To fill the space, before the dawn,
And load to the brim life's hollow beakers.