Machine

Bought an old poetry machine.
Should have known.
Fixed it up; plugged it in;
it gave me a shock.
‘Oh, cruelest heart that but to enslave
holds beauty thus…’ Phut.

Bought a new one. The box read
‘Made in China’. Fired up;
keyed in number 18, ‘The Bard’.
‘Will I three in August juxtapose?’
Ah well, back to the board.
Back to drawing.