Underwood

Oh grand machine of grand design,
I press your keys one at a time.
Pray words take form on rendered wood.
That I will craft them fine and good.
With fair intent and understood.
The gilded script now fading, wrinkling,
Spaced by hand upon the frame.
So long ago, yet all I see;
Is that script staring back at me.
The pulp and linen standing by
A pile so neatly stacked and styled.
I pray the words will come, and good.
Yet all I see is,
Underwood.
Somewhere within my huddled id
The words are there but staying hid,
And only one fine gilded word
On ancient frame in wrinkling script
Is there within my frame of view.
I close my eyes but it remains.
And though I muse of joy and pains
My poor imagination strains.
The grand machine of grand design
With keys worn barren over time
Yet every station's script remains.
I pray the words will come, and good
Yet all I see is,
Underwood.