Robin Ford, April 2019

Young Alexander Grahame Bell kept trying
To send a spoken message down a wire,
Until one day he said “Please, Mister Watson,”
“—Come here—I want to see you”. And he came
The distant voice that brought him was converted
To electronic analogues of sound
That travelled in a parallel dimension,
Where distances were able to be conquered.
But esoteric maths has taken over
And digital, not analogue, now reigns.
Those abstruse transforms found along the way:
Is something lost among those algorithms?
“That’s right!” a loyal cadre still contends,
The analogue LP retains some friends.