I have a trim typewriter now, <br />They tell me none is better; <br />It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row, <br />And neat is every letter. <br />I tick out stories by machine, <br />Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen, <br />And lathe them off in manner slick. <br />It is so easy, and it’s quick. <br /> <br />And yet it falls short, I’m afraid, <br />Of giving satisfaction, <br />This making literature by aid <br />Of scientific traction; <br />For often, I can’t fail to see, <br />The dashed thing runs away with me. <br />It bolts, and do whate’er I may <br />I cannot hold the runaway. <br /> <br />It is not fitted with a brake, <br />And endless are my verses, <br />Nor any yarn I start to make <br />Appropriately terse is. <br />‘Tis plain that this machine-made screed <br />Is fit but for machines to read; <br />So “Wanted” (as an iron censor) <br />“A good, sound, secondhand condenser!”<br /><br />Edward George Dyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-typewriter-2/
