Typos Included

Been regarded as clumsy For most of my long life, An existence where accidents Seemed more than usually rife. The despair of the Drill Pig Who, refusing to accept defeat Finally instilled some precision On my two largely left feet. He never, sadly, ever managed To sort out my dominant trick The natural born ability to trip Over any discarded match stick. The only slight advantage being I am here and still obviously alive After so many clumsy incidents Normal humans might not survive. The typewriter keyboard, and later That of my laptop or replacement PC Remained a minefield of misspelling To my indisciplined fingers and me. The voice recognition programme For a while brought some hope But I spoke in East Riding and They just couldn’t always cope Happily settled in retirement Accepting of my situation When a casual conversation Helped explain my situation. Born when things were seen In Black and gleaming white It was never ever considered that My incoordination just might Be a mental condition A slight disability That took away from me Some natural ability. They called it Dyspraxia. The clumsy oaf no more A slight impairment that I can now happily ignore. When spellcheck on my PC Just gives up in despair I find that I can no longer Be bothered to really care. Typos are included and If I miss them when I check That’s my style of writings. And I couldn’t give a heck.