Typewriter

The Typewriter I didn`t drink much till I was thirty-four Life was not getting any better my writing ambition Was rejected by my family as a pipe dream I drank –the refuge of the feeble - and dreamed While fantasising lost house, wife, hare& hound Ended up in a cot on mother`s loft. A dusty type-writer in the corner took it out and cleaned It with my scarf and wrote something behind an unpaid bill I loved the ping it made at the end of its limit Ping! Wake up you drunken sloth I had found my Metier Who wants to sit with losers in a smoky bar not me mate. Writing has not brought financial reward but that Was not what I was aiming at it was just to give thoughts Wings so they could fly where the fancy took them.