The Sansui turntable still works well. Like memories, round and round, Needling me. And the more I play them, The more they itch. I know the dark side of the moon, And the way the sun shines. The dances, whirlwind moves, That have settled now. Inside the sleeve are notes and our words. I will not let the dust jackets do their job. I set Abbey Road gently on the pad, Place the needle softly, and hear the familiar scratch. Standing back, like watching a parade, I listen. Here comes the sun on a cloudy day.