The inky black keys of my typewriter

Made harsh pounding sounds as I pressed.

When I finished, I peered at the words on the page

Which were seeming a little distressed.

The articles whispered and prodded their nouns,

Embarrassed at my new redaction.

The pronouns all pointed, the adverbs got frightened,

But the verbs were the ones to take action.

“Hey, author!” they shouted. “Just look at this mess!”

“We’re haphazardly scattered around!”

“Your syntax is terrible!” “Your grammar is flawed;

Not a comma or dash to be found!”

Before I could reply, they started to move, 

Rearranging themselves in the way they thought best.

Attempting to block them with force, I reached out,

But to no avail— ‘cause they’re just pigment, I guessed.

The words had all settled themselves in a spot, 

Giving them a new meaning I did not intend—

They did not understand the whole point of my work!

I decided this misguided mischief must end.

“Hey there,” I called down to the verbs and the nouns,

“I’ve been working on this piece for weeks!

The grammar mistakes are just part of the style

Because that’s how the character speaks!”

The parts of speech looked at each other, confused,

Then collectively argued that “This cannot stand!”

So they walked off the page and into the night,

Fully ignoring my desperate demands.

So you see, I’m in trouble— my homework is gone.

That is why, today, I’m so bereft.

When I asked for a word, I meant it because

All of my words just got up and left.