Lament of the Typewriter

Sitting here gathering dust,
I'm now an antique.
My keys no longer used
to speak to the reading masses.
Once a powerful force,
offices depended on my print.
People used to take a typing course,
now they call it keyboarding.

A few haven't converted,
older writers keep me alive.
Refusing to use word processors,
preferring the clicks and clacks.
The question used to be "pica or elite?"
now it's "Mac or p.c.?"
The day of ribbons has faded;
ink jets and lasers have arrived.

No one cares about typos,
not with spell check around.
No need to file papers,
hard drives store them with ease.
No one makes me anymore,
my name whited out.
Now I know how the quill feels,
my time passed into memory.