Not like the brazen giants of German fame,
With clamorous symphonies from land to land;
Here on our digital packets shall stand
A humble human with a DAW, whose game
uses electric samples, and his name
in the credits screen. From his keyboard-hand
Types world-web welcome; his mild eyes command
The high-end PC that twin speakers frame.

“Keep, triple A, your storied pomp!” cries he
With silent clicks. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your indies coding in obscurity,
The wretched retros and your pixel noir.
Send these, the outcasts, the contest-lost, to me,
I move my mouse beside my paper score.”