Coda   The universe is a phonograph, Our lives mere vinyl recordings Playing daily mundane tunes, Monotony annual practice. Bugles whine in the background, Drums lethargic from humdrum; Violins strumming mediocrity, Tap the exhausted sonata. Measures scoring hebetude, Mind drifts slowly to sleep. Man picks up the trombone, His stand assembled before him; Unleashing the […]