“We shall craft works of wonder,” Emma crooned to her lovely typewriter
But the keys, at first full of vim, soon showed that they wanted to fight her.
They slashed the paper and sliced her fingers, turned her mail into instant junk,
The works they produced were a raging mess like those of a gibbering drunk.
It was slang word here and expletive there, the vile keys just wouldn’t halt;
At each line-end the thing blasted a ting, she couldn’t stop its assault
The ribbon unfurled and blackened her hands, the space bar stalled and jammed
“You’ll not get the better of me!” Emma screamed, “I’ll be published yet or be damned.”
It was apostrophe measles, comma eczema and then split infinitive rash;
“My story finished, I’ll buy a laptop, and I’ll toss this thing in the trash.”
But as she typed the words, The End, it started to smoke and spit
And with the final full stop in place the machine threw a flame-shooting fit.
Bang! went the casing. Bang! went the keys, they scattered all over the room,
A display of pyrotechnics leading up to a thunderous BOOM!
Emma’s body was thrown through the window, her soul was detached to ascend,
And the piece of paper that survived the fire, was, of course, THE END.