Ah, here I stand, the mic’s cold breath below my nose—
A silent crowd unseen except by blinking red lights’ prose.
“T-minus ten,” the producer shrills, his smile a twisted blade,
I clutch my earmuffs tight; in seconds I’ll be displayed.
This journey starts with static blasts—my voice a trembling lamb,
Words stumble forth like clumsy dancers in a hammy jam.
“Oh! Frequencies collide!” I joke, trying out my radio charm—
Yet every crackle sounds like doom wrapped sweetly in alarm.
The clock’s relentless countdown beats beneath my eager skin,
And all at once—the magic strikes! The show begins to spin!
“Good evening folks!” I chirp too loud, then cough—live air surprise!
But if you hear a laugh or two? That’s just me on the rise.
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