Fierce warrior of time, spinning tales anew, Grooves of battle scars, songs of strength so true. Round and black, it conquers sound's endless night, An epic of sound, forged in circular might.

Towering over edge, For those who drag and dredge, A monument to focus aim, But don’t go up the ledge. Spinning beams beckon, A landmark taming dark. Known to have a keeper, Who gives the saving spark.

A festive branch where tradition meets, beneath which lips often greet. In this leafy nook, a seasonal chance for a peck awaits.

Though not part of a tree, you could say it’s a log. Trophy logs made of gold are hung on artists walls. You can speak on or off it, drop a needle atop it, Or break it, just make sure that Guinness can watch it.

What’s every color made, But mostly black and blue? Rolling its head on a page, Bleeding out, just for you.