The Wrong Type

The author flopped back in his chair,
His fingers sore and peeling.
He ran his fingers through his hair
And gazed up at the ceiling.
And just before warm sleep o’ertook
This worn out writer of a book,
He thought he heard a click-clack-cluck
Tap-tapping in his brain.

Little r let out a sigh,
“I’d thought he’d never finish,
Though in the last half-hour, I
Could feel his strength diminish.”
“My back is broke,” said little s,
“I’ll have to be repaired, I guess.
My inky curves are just a mess,
My spring has sprung a sprain.”

Said comma to apostrophe,
“How are you feeling brother?
The letters mind themselves, but we
Must watch out for each other.”
“I’m fine” replied apostrophe,
“He hardly ever uses me,
And, when he does, it’s plain to see
His grammar is inane.”

“What’s the story?” called out x
To Daisy Wheel above her.
“I think it’s only sex, sex, sex-
A poor man and his lover.”
“Go on! Go on!” cried exclamation.
“He’s using lots of punctuation,
There must be lots of fornication;
My key is racked with pain!”

Said sixty-six to ninety-nine,
“Hey, sister, how’s it hanging?”
The other gave a little whine,
“I’m tired of all his banging.
This novel will be one hard slog,
He’s always using dialogue,
They’re even yapping when they snog,
Why can’t they just refrain?”

The author woke at half-past two,
And all the keys stopped moaning.
He slowly read the last page through,
Then held his temples, groaning.
He smote the desk with emphasis.
“I can’t believe I wrote all this!
I’d better give this book a miss,
I’m under too much strain.”