Typing on platen of my old creaking friend.
Letters are hittin', but some need an amend.
Few keys I always miss, such as the number 4,
Plus sign's elusive, next to the underscore.
I keypunch you, yes I punch you, oh how I punch you!

Playing that keyboard under my hands,
Often what they produce, you can't understand.
I hear the bell ring as I reach line's end.
You hear me yelling: I hit "M" and not "N!"
I keypunch you, yes I punch you, oh how I punch you!

(Glockenspiel solo)

[Repeat first verse]

SPOKEN:
Beat "E" with finger ringed, fume!
As I mistype my nom de plume.
Typesetter people would surely lament
The way I've got my foolish fingers bent.
Fat little finger wrestles with the 1
Roaming hand types like knuckles rapped by nun.
I smother curse of "This sucks!" as I punch.
Then grumble, "F*ck it! It's time for lunch."
Cold-plated grub, I take a bite
And then return to keyboard fight.
Still I do not get it right,
My old typewriter takes flight--
Through the window it's cruisin'.