My Typewriter

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 mayI 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

Is fit but for machines to read;

So “Wanted” (as an iron censor)“A good, sound, secondhand condenser!”