I got me a writing machine. It’s lean and mean
and fast and clean. Turns itself on each morning
at four, sits on my desk with a purr, purr, purr
all kitty-cat idling, disguising the fact that it’s a
Wildcat Four-Forty-Five that roars out onto the
writing highway gobbling blank pages up alive.

And oh it’s nice that my writing machine’s so light
to the touch. I don’t have to push it much, intuitive
as it is and knowing automatically what to do for me.
Its pistons explode in my mind as I race against time
frantically trying to write down so many new lines.

Sometimes it even helps me drive because I’m dashing
with such ardent desire to yet another writing fire.
Hairpin turn up ahead? No sweat. I’ll blow through it
at ninety-five burning rubber and screeching the tires.
I can’t be slowing down with my head so full of ideas.

My machine comes with chrome wheels and fat tires
red racing stripes down the sides, bumpin’ tunes and
plush attire plus a five-speed power shifter on the floor.
What a delight, and such fun it is with eight cylinders
and so many horses for my brain to ride. The rear end?
Jacked-up, friend. Mufflers? Throaty, growl like beasts.

I get my machine out on the literary freeway at my desk
with miles of paragraphs to burn. I pop the clutch and
squeal the tires, hope you stay out of my way because
it’s a sunny day and I looked around but didn’t see
no cops around so I took the top down and stomped
the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard metal.

When I hit a hundred miles an hour, that’s when I hear
the po-lease sirens. Highway patrols and state troopers
sure can be some party poopers, but can they catch me?

Because I’m slamming gears and bashing fenders like
a crazy drunk on an all-night bender. Bumper cars?
We play that, too. You hit me, I hit you. I’m no angel
neither are you and we ain’t singing in a heavenly choir
so I’ll knock you off the road to be first across the wire.

Not many drivers get too near me. I try and keep them
in my rearview mirror. Most broke down or crashed
in the dirt. I tell you, writing is a dangerous sport.

My machine loves me dearly and would never steer me
into a collision or catastrophe, nor leave me with an
over-heated writer’s block. That notion’s pure poppycock!
People say: Really? You got a writing machine gives you 
that much? I laugh and reply: That’s right, you chumps!

Then I get ‘er back to town, act all proper, slow ‘er down.
Oops -- here’s the mayor. Look sharp and throw a wave.
Good Day, Sir! Here’s to you and how’s the Missus?
And I hope you’re happy with our municipal business. 

Nighttime comes, the writing’s done and my machine
cools off on my desk, resting and purring for me, eager
to be out again as I sleep, dreaming of tomorrow’s ride.