Tick tick tick,
the typewriter clicks.
The passing time,
the letters chime,
and some may rhyme,
tick tick tick.
The letters flow,
like the wind so slow,
or the falling snow,
with the winters glow,
tick tick tick.
The ink as black as night,
and the words have so much might,
tick tick tick.
The stories that you hold,
some letters in bold,
turn into gold,
tick tick tick.