For the sake of convenience, Old man and fiddle with years of fireside play, is defeated by thin silver discs. We, the young poets, sigh as he gazes bewildered A button is pushed and the bow tilts and the bow falls to the dust. We look to those who years ago saw more than profit and convenience. We look to those who years ago were twice warmed. We look to those who years ago years ago years ago. And we are born surrounded by discs.