It’s a scratched and dusty lacquer press,
And the name upon it, “Bastianini.”
The fat old woman in the printed dress
Asked to hear it after her linguini.
I almost didn’t hear her speak to me
At first; the crowd is very good tonight.
But she’d caught my sleeve to say that she
Would consider it to be a slight
If she didn’t get to hear a disc
From the cafe’s old and vast collection.
And so, I went up to the shelves to whisk
Out and play a record at her direction.
But when I gently placed the needle in,
It played…and no one heard above the din.