The static hiss, a prelude soft and low,
Before the velvet voice began to flow.
Ninety-four point seven, a beacon in the night,
Guiding our young hearts with its gentle light.
The eighties hummed with neon's vibrant gleam,
But in the airwaves, a more tranquil dream.
Mellow Touch unfolded smooth and so slow,
Where whispered melodies began to grow.
Remember Sunday mornings lazy...
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