The Monkey and the Typewriter
A monkey in a forest found a typewriter one day,
And knelt before the strange device upon his hairy knees.
He could not grasp what it was for, but used it anyway,
And every morning came again to sit and strike the keys.
No Shakespeare, Keats or Twain was he; his text was no delight,
For never once did he look down to see what key he struck.
A page of random letters was the most that he could write,
And if a meaning could be found, the cause was only luck.
The monkey had eleven heirs, and fate struck all but one,
Whose mind was wise to danger that no other monkey sees.
And when the elder typed no more, his only living son
Took up his father's