The Ballad of Typo

I was the night staff Wang word processor for a major law firm in down-town Chicago when I wrote this. Often I was responsible for "clean-up" on work done by the day-staff secretaries.

Ballad of Typo

 

 

He lay face down on my CRT stand, clutching my citebook in his hand.

Seen from behind, I  thought he was dead, for upon his desk was a mess of red.  But his screen still burned, so I hit the byte and late that night I saved the life of Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

I watched him till the danger passed �" the days went by, he mended fast.  And hour and hour I watched in awe �" no human hand could match the paw of Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

One day we took the typing test.  He stroked fast, but I stroked best.  I followed System law and won a star, while he spread error near and far.  With mis-stroke and misspell he gained such fame �" all through our firm they feared the name of Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

I knew some day I’d face the test which one of us would be the best.  And sure enough the word came down that he was holed up in our town.  I left our proofreaders out in the street and I went in alone to meet Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

They said my speed was next to none, but my lightning strokes had just begun, when I felt a blast that stung my wrist, the control knob went flying from my fist.  And I was looking down the board of the deadly 44 of Typo.

                        Typo, Typo!

 

They say that was the only time that anyone had ever seen him smile.  He slowly lowered his hand and then he said to me, “We’re even, friend.”  And so at last I understood that there was still a spark of good in Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

I blocked the path of his retreat; he turned and stepped into the street.  A dozen pens spit black and red; a moment later, he lay dead.  The firm began to shout and cheer �" nowhere was there shed a tear for Typo.

                        Typo.

 

The story spread throughout the land, that I had beaten Typo’s hand.  And it was just the years they say, that made me put my CRT away.  But on his grave they can’t explain the tattered citebook above the name of Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

                        Typo, Typo.

 

                 Donna M. Jitchotvisut -   July 31, 1981

 

Copyright ©2006, Donna M. Jitchotvisut

Author's Note

I get my ideas for writing (including poetry) from daily events. One of the things that aggravated me most about being a legal secretary/word processor is the sloppiness I often found. This poem is the result of that frustration. I hope the reviewers enjoy it and it brings a laugh or two!