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 -Wantedâ? (as an iron censor)
-A good, sound, secondhand condenser!â?
My Typewriter
Edward George Dyson
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Poem topics: away, good, plain, start, easy, iron, endless, hold, short, afraid, sound, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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