THE PROOFREADER’S LAMENT

“Typewriters are cold enemies

To lions and the crickets in a chirping head”—

These were the words young Jason said

When he hankered for a golden fleece

And dropped a dungeon overboard.

And Byron was a gaudy heart, a rogue; in fine,

A baron with a nose for the sublime,

His day a fracas, and his night a sport.

Moreover, loonies there have been

Who climbed five flights into a leaking room

And therefore wove upon a loom

A sun, a zinnia, and a tangerine.

(A pencil on my thumb, I earn my keep,

Don’t catch the moon, and look before I weep.)

[The word “Typewriters” rather than “Computers” (or any other electronic device) dates this poem as “long ago”.]