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Show Just Folks By Edgar A. Guest TO A TYPEWRITER RIBBON Off you come the old machine And my fingers, now unclean, Toss you in the basket there Old and worn beyond repair. Time was ribbon, inky black. One of many In a atack Boxed and foiled and trimly made Waitlag to be aold you atayed. By that chance which rules us all "Twas youj fate to me to fall. ' Had your pathway elaewhere run Better thinga you might have done. By the minute, more or less. What had happened none can guess. Had 1 but my step delayed You, perhaps, had toiled In trade. From another set of keys, 'Stead of verses such as these. Legal writs or figures drear Might have aummed up your career. ca-reer. Ribbon, threadbare, worn and old. Thus it is our lives are told For not one of us can see All that shapes his destiny. (Copyright, 1937, for The Telegram.) |