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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508523" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Typewriter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I used to think a pot of ink<br>Held magic in its fluid,<br>And I would ply a pen when I<br>Was hoary a a Druid;<br>But as I scratch my silver thatch<br>My battered old Corona<br>Calls out to me as plaintively<br>As dying Desdemona.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;For old time's sake give me a break:<br>To you I've been as loyal<br>As ever could an Underwood,<br>Or Remington or Royal.<br>The globe we've spanned together and<br>Two million words, maybe,<br>For you I've tapped - it's time you rapped<br>A rhyme or two for me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I've seen you sit and smoke and spit<br>With expletives profane,<br>Then tear with rage the virgin page<br>I tendered you in vain.<br>I've watched you glare in dull despair<br>Through hours of brooding thought,<br>Then with a shout bang gaily out<br>The 'word unique' you sought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I've heard you groan and grunt and moan<br>That rhyme's a wretched fetter;<br>That after all you're just a small<br>Fat-headed verse-begetter;<br>You'd balance me upon your knee<br>Like any lady friend,<br>Then with a sigh you'd lay me by<br>For weeks and weeks on end.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I've known when you were mighty blue<br>And hammered me till dawn,<br>Dire poverty! But I would be<br>The last thing you would pawn.<br>Days debt-accurst! Then at its worst<br>The sky, behold, would clear;<br>A poem sold, the garret cold<br>Would leap to light and cheer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;You've toted me by shore and sea<br>From Mexico to Maine;<br>From Old Cathay to Mandalay,<br>From Samarkand to Spain.<br>You've thumped me in the battle's din<br>And pounded me in peace;<br>By air and land you've lugged me and<br>Your shabby old valise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;But now my keys no more with ease<br>To your two fingers yield;<br>With years of use my joints are loose,<br>With wear of flood and field.<br>And even you are slipping too:<br>You're puffy, stiff and grey:<br>Old Sport, we're done, our race is run -<br>Why not call it a day?&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why not? You've been, poor old machine!<br>My tried and faithful friend.<br>With fingertip your keys I'll flip<br>Serenely to the end.<br>For even though you're stiff and slow,<br>No other will I buy.<br>And though each word be wan and blurred<br>I'll tap you till I die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508523" data-title="My Typewriter de Robert William Service" data-description="I used to think a pot of ink
Held magic in its fluid,
And I would ply a pen when I
Was hoary a a Druid;
But as I scratch my silver thatch
My battered old Corona
Calls out to me as plaintively
As dying Desdemona.

&quot;For old time's sake give me ..."></div>
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