I wrote this one about my long dormant hobby of record collecting. The name is a mistake, it was supposed to be Gramophone but as a lifelong fan of spoonerisms, I managed to accidentally flip the word. Hence, Phonogram (nothing to do with the record label).
lyrics
A dusty pile of records
In the upper left hand corner
Of a shelf weighed down
By years of neglect
And disorder
A continuum of hoarder genes
Passed down through generations
A catalog of memories
And deep deliberations
Don't feel left out
Nobody wants you to
And anyway
Sign this form
Don't look at it
It's for your own benefit
Phonogram
Idle hand
Phonogram
One sixty gram
A black unmarked van drives up
And disturbs your meditation
On the merits of some jazz great's
Reputation
A white clad arm reaches out
And stops the world from spinning
You reach inside
The pocket of your robe
And keep on grinning
Don't feel left out
Nobody wants you to
And anyway
Sign this form
Don't look at it
It's for your own benefit
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