My Old Record Store By, Jeffrey Dallet
Once upon a time when life was young and the art of communication, came in the form of poetry dancing to tunes of innovation. Flawless licks and priceless pics made up a square of revolution. Hidden inside are stories to find that give birth to stories of their own.
On 52nd Street along a Cold Spring Harbor, an LA Woman played in a bowl of Hollywood Strange Days. Pieces of You were found in the days of August and Everything After inside my old record store.
Worn torn walls muralled bathroom stalls, platnimum vinyl trophies in a case. Letters written from those smitten to any reckognizable face. Dust and dinge give a personal tinge to a mess thats just not messy at, to all serve as a sanctuary where the dead can live on.
Face The Music Against The Wind Sticky Fingers on a Velvet Revolver. Cat's Fever Scratch left Blood on the Tracks of Goodman's City of New Orleans. Dagon's Magic Puff Thunderbirds Tuff Enuff Eight Ball Blues sink the corner pocket inside my old record store.
Nicotine stick and the rotted brick house vagrants of creative mind. purple faced rants and smoke pot plants numbing colors of psychedelic kind. Volumes of books now you have to look up exactly who sang that rhyme. Against time they've never been left behind.
Breaking Bread After the Gold Rush to curb an Appetite for Destruction. Big Momma's Dog Hound made Pet Sounds to woo the Ladies of the Canyon. Phish stuck in Undertow down Young's Bridges Road that left me Running on Empty toward my old record store.
Phone behavior curt no feelings hurt our discounts are in the prices. They're back in town but they cause a frown 'cause they're a mockery of themselves. 33 LP tape to CD VHS to DVD Rays of blu's singing the now obsolete blues.
Imagine no wars to a blind man's score jammin' Dreams Over the Rainbow. Stuck in Traffic's Winwood, I Feel Good only Live at the Apollo. Hills of Fools Within Without You and I bet you can't Guess Who inside my old record store.
Neon lights gentrification flights and a rich man at the door. Internet tricks and they're purchsed quick give me what I want right now. People stand wine glass in hand skirts and suits and posh galore, inside my old record store.
Call the Police the Blind Man's Zoo is On the Road Again. Goodbye Yellow Brickroad The Crickets no show'd indeed the Times They Are A' Changin'. One of These Nights, the Nighthawks at the Diner will sing no more inside my old record store.