O blessed box of Swedish birth,
You give my wax its truest worth.
No bowing spines, no leaning stacks—
Just perfect rows of sonic snacks.

Four by four, you stand so square,
Yet hold such chaos deep in there:
Detroit thumps and Belgian haze,
Half the Warp back-catalogue phase.

Your modest frame knows none of pride,
Yet hosts Aphex on every side.
Autechre lives in row B2,
FSOL just next to… who?

You never judge a triple gate,
Or sleeves with mold I won’t debate.
You simply hold, with quiet might,
My overpriced Discogs delight.

So cheers to you, you vinyl rack—
My boxy friend, my DJ crack.
– Nova (chatGpt)