iPod Ode

Mr. Sun reminds us that this is National Poetry Month. And so, since I've been reading Milton and listening to my iPod, the following just sort of popped out. Apologies all around.

Of Man's (and Woman's) iPod and the Fruit
That glows from its illumin'd screen, whence comes
Abundant music flowing sweet, and all
Our bliss, sing, O Technic Muse, as when
Great Jobs in Siliconian Vale – or shall
I Sunny rather name, with glassy box
for office well-adorn'd, and swarming 'round
the polo-shirted drones? – conceived in his
Deep mind the Lisa, or the Macintosh,
Full-blazon'd with the half-ingested fruit.
To what might I compare thee, Toy
Incomparable, since thou alone hast crush'd
The walk- and disc-man both, to join their curs'd
Forebears – eight tracks, casettes, and tapey reels,
And cumbrous tables spinning in their rounds?
All vanquish'd utterly, and in their place
Ten thousand songs, or twenty, leap at beck
Of nimble finger flick'd about thy orb
Tactile, thy glist'ring cover compassing
A world of joy. To thee orisons sweet
I raise, who doth transport me 'cross long time
And space, and in an instant me relays
Into the Seventies, to hear great King
A hymn to Woman Natural sing forth,
And to myself I seem to be by beans
Embrac'd, their frequent concourse all envinyl'd,
My feet upon a whelm of shag to float.
But Shuffle mode's great pow'r doth me remove
Instant to Canadian Gould's expert
Baroque concertos passionate, and all
His bee-like humming o'er the keys. Or next
To Castro's sunny Isle am I transpos'd
-- or should I say Battista's? -- and by muse
Cubanic doth the Social Club perform.
O Wondrous cubicle full pack'd with worlds
Symphonic! Toungue will not suffice to tell
Thy praise, for as Costello, sage of rock
Hath noted oft, men's speech of music fails
As doth the futile architectural dance.