The Typewriter

I didn't drink much till I was thirty-four
Life was not getting any better my writing ambition
Was rejected by my family as a pipe dream
I drank –the refuge of the feeble - and dreamed
While fantasising lost house, wife, hare& hound
Ended up in a cot on mother's loft.
A dusty typewriter in the corner took it out and cleaned
It with my scarf and wrote something behind an unpaid bill
I loved the ping it made at the end of its limit
Ping!
Wake up you drunken sloth I had found my Metier
Who wants to sit with losers in a smoky bar not me mate.
Writing has not brought financial reward but that
Was not what I was aiming at it was just to give thoughts
Wings so they could fly where the fancy took them.