Some ride high pacers
Then buckle, then groom,
I toil the mornings
And weary by noon,
Some lie on beaches
While others sip wine,
I work my magic
From noon until nine.

Some pass each hour in
A long, speechless haze,
Some watch from windows
Some others, for days,
Some look for something
They cannot define,
I work machines
That decipher each line.

Some will learn nothing
Who sit by and wait
For life to approach them
Before it's too late,
I tend to secrets
In shape and in form,
Lending my essence
From dusk until dawn.

Others may wait
For the end of their spell,
I weave my magic
With engines from hell,
Engines of noise that
By dight and by dint
I coax from disaster
As slowly - they print!

David Lewis Paget