Conversation becomes my obituary.**

  *Every sentence beckons closer the death of me.

Repeated chorus of a scratched and scathed LP,

stuttered , spluttered end to the symphony.

So put the violins back
they have been worn out.
Let them whisper and no longer shout.
Place bow in case let there be no doubt,
when next I turn my back on this stage
it'll be as I bow out.