The action is a bit sticky
From something like the plaque in my head
Insulating the nerves of transmission
From fingers dry and rusty
Creaking their way to the platen
Through Bakelite labelled key
Sculpted stamped steel arm
Pivoting on tint hinge pins
To swing old oily furry linty
Thus encrusted muscled type bars
Which entangle one another
On their arc to and from the paper
Should I dare to try and strike too fast
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