It’s Eighty Years

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

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