It’s eighty years
In the basement
Mixing fears
In a lubricant
In an air raspy
Laying on a brass bed
Never wispy
Nor by government misled
Talkin bout a boxer
Lecturing the snobs
Mother maybe bobby soxer
Twisting recording knobs
So that greasy oil
Maintained a croaky sound
Time yet not could spoil
He did get around
T. M. Shorewick 