Outdated and Unappreciated

I keep my song of self
Right up there
On the top shelf
It's in an outdated format
From a dead culture
And it's infernal machine

Press it to your forehead
For all the good it will do you
Perhaps you can absorb
That which it won't sing to you

Or maybe you can reverse engineer
That which has turned to dust
Only to find it's your ears you can't trust
They hear only what they want
Not the highs nor the lows
Ignoring the sweet whale song
As it thrashes in death throes

Everything is subjective
So I'll just let you assume
That if you could hear it
You'd throw up your hands and stalk from the room

There's no accounting for taste
Certainly not yours
So lets leave that song of self
Up high upon it's shelf
Under lock and key
And securely closed doors