Oh tangled muse of plastic and of chrome,
You held the eighties in your compact home.
Thriller's beat, a pop king's crown,
You spun Madonna's lace, not letting us down.
Click, hiss, the play button pressed,
A mixed tape confession, a heart expressed.
Fingers danced on fast-forward and rewind,
A delicate ballet, with a soundtrack entwined.
You are the whispers of 'Just Like Heaven',
A symphony in C-90, a teenage leaven.
Every pop and crackle, a memory's keep,
A time machine in a spool so deep.
Walkman's companion down memory lane,
With you, the 'Purple Rain' never wanes.
You're a thriller chase in a neon scene,
Your ribbon, a path to where we've been.
Mix-tape maestro, you blend the old,
A craft of art, a story told.
In your reels, the echoes of our past,
A track for love that was meant to last.
Now with each unspooled and twisted line,
You remind us of a simpler time.
Where mix-tapes were love, and pop was king,
In your magnetic clasp, the eighties sing.
© Eric Montgomery, 02-March-2024
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