In the still and silent night,
When I sit me down to write,
There is mystery and ease,
In the movement of the keys,
And the smooth and even run
Of my magic Remington.
Let the man who glories still.
In the ancient pen or quill,
Take it of all glory shorn,
Like that of his old ink horn;
Put his paste-brush in the ink
When, if ever, he should think.
I have now a wizard's wand,
Underneath my dexter hand,
Bringing happiness to me,
Through its runic melody,
Making time without the waste
Of the ink quill in the paste.