Headphones bleed
From the chords I believe
Were struck by the master…
The master of hands…
Of ”Ladyland”, electric
A vinyl worth the weight
Of three bricks of gold
For its’ platinum sold, and-
I could never trade that thrill
That marrow bristling chill
For a sack of dollar bills
On e-bay’s net exchange
For I may be old and strange
But am not that far deranged
And, ahhhh…the jagged mid-range tone
Sweet and smooth like sculpted stone
Before the days of cellular phones
When Jimi blew my Fosgate cones-
In acoustical bliss
With a mind-chasing hiss
Like a Boa or Cobra
In peak tone and pitch
And the demon of demons
With his tie-dye bandana
Toothpick, his stage manna
‘Sweet Decibel Demon’
Twang-god for all seasons
Of titanium tweeter domes
Disturbed watts and ohms