The New Tool

Sometimes to write I lack the will
When from the bottle ink doth spill
The box yields but a broken quill
My thought I lose
Sich mundane tasks my mind must fill
This foils the Muse

So when a salesman, keen and bright
Accosts me on a Friday night
And wishes me to see the light
Of his new tool
The ale is guid: he may be right
I am a fule.

But what avail, to tell me how
I should spell? I ken, I trow
More words than this beast will allow
T'would suit me fine
If I should ne'er more see, I vow
Red underline

I'll throw the damn thing in the brook
Ill health to him from whom I took
This cursed device that wrecks each book
(and there it breaks off)