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!”
This poem is in the public domain.
|Purchase a framed print of this poem.
Edward Dyson (1865 – 1931) was an Australian writer. Son of a mining engineer, he and his brothers worked for a time as truckers, miners, and laborers, but all eventually pursued careers in the arts. A magazine editor, novelist, short story writer, playwright, and poet, Edward earned an excellent living from his writing. He juggled multiple projects on an ongoing basis and was known for being meticulously organized.
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Charming for its era.
Posted 03/31/2012 03:17 PM
Too cute! I love it!
Posted 03/31/2012 10:19 AM
Posted 03/31/2012 07:01 AM
I was told a computer's first verse was 'Merry Chrysanthemum!'
Posted 03/31/2012 04:38 AM