Some Sony Dojo once had a dream.
The world shrunk the band to an inch
So he told them his scheme for a karaoke machine.
They called it the player, it asset being small.
Its function stopped stores, gave fans nothing to hold.
No CDs to keep, no CD jackets to behold.
Music played on a pin. It's cousin the MP3
Made fans flee to the web so they could buy tiny headphones
And have their poor music squeezed through teeny wires that made drones.

Please don't collect CDs, please throw out your CDs.
Music's too big, a vague beat seems quite fashionable now.
I may sell you all.

It's scheme was grand.
All band melodys were reduced
To fine blips which swayed hips and moved lips
To the beat of his karaoke machine.
There were no more rock stars,
Concert halls, shows in malls. Accountants rocked tall
Old LPs were burned, album jackets destroyed
In the name to render colorless, tasteless, and formless
The flame of music's broad joy.

I won't let your song play, won't let your song play
Unless it's all done the karaoke way.

(Sony Dojo shoots music fan listening to a Yes CD and looking at a psychedelic fold-out)

Now the common people could sing.
Their voices were changed,
Mechanically altered to fit the music's physics
So that talentless souls held fast
To the facets of the artist's true voice.
Everyone was a star. William Hung was their god.
They held shows in their homes. Music skills were so commonplace
The notes showed in their face. Yes, they made music alone.
No superstars glowed. A musical socialism finally took hold.

Your cash is too green. I surmise all I've seen.
You can stake your voice on a karaoke machine.
Your wish to rock granted, I've just now invented
Your rightful cool throne to the rock-n-roll dream.