"To chrome, or not to chrome: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of his outrageous Tequilabird,
Or to take arms against a sea of bland Fenders,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we Low-end frequencies
The heart-ache and the thousand natural bass-runs
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream of more chrome: ay, there's the rub, the polishing of the chrome;
For in that sleep of death what dreams of chrome may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal "pup" coil,
Must give us pause (to turn up the amp): there's the respect
That makes calamity of bad refin's;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of no chrome,
The oppressor's failed delivery of our BaCHbirds, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love of eight strings, the law's delay,
The insolence of office of Roman, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes, and re-takes when we fail to get that run, just so,
When he himself might his quietus stanby switch make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life of humping the gear back to the van,
But that the dread of something after death, the bass solo,
The undiscover'd country, another bass solo, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have against Mark King and his ilk
Than fly to others that we know not of, the cheap Japanese 1960's copy?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, for not fitting more chrome;
And thus the native hue of unpolished chrome
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought of not polishing,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents overload turn awry,
And lose the name of action due to a badly adjusted truss rod. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins of lacking in chrome replacements be remember'd."
with apologies to THE Bard...
