People don’t use their VCRs anymore
And along with all their tapes
They dumped them beneath a murky lake

Filled with compact discs and old victrolas
Dinosaurs and green glass coca-colas

To feed the furry worms that dwell
in the abyss
the only animal on Earth that can bite
straight through plastic, vinyl, and
pure memory

They live at the bottom
In their huts of record sleeves
Chewing up the flotsam
Spewing bubbles of static and sepia tone

And on the brown banks the lonely folk sit
Watching the bubbles float away
like fireworks displays
Of happier times
Sun shiny days

Knowing they are just shadows
of their abyssal pets at play