I have a trim typewriter now,
They tell me none is better;
It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
And neat is every letter.
I tick out stories by machine,
Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,
And lathe them off in manner slick.
It is so easy, and it-s quick.

And yet it falls short, I-m afraid,
Of giving satisfaction,
This making literature by aid
Of scientific traction;
For often, I can-t fail to see,
The dashed thing runs away with me.
It bolts, and do whate-er I may
I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,
And endless are my verses,
Nor any yarn I start to make
Appropriately terse is.
-Tis plain that this machine-made screed
Is fit but for machines to read;
So -Wanted� (as an iron censor)
-A good, sound, secondhand condenser!�