Machine Writes.

I bet that Stratford lad, Will, what's his name?
when counting his fame never bemoaned moans,
scoffing bacon sarnies, top of his game,
with his pals hacking plays out of old tomes.
 
Some say an infinity of monkey
banging typewriters can write the same thing,
and algorithms on new machines, maybe  
usurp us rhymers to make poems swing.
 
So I bang away like old king Canute
in the hope to keep this new tide from my door,
where one presses buttons, get writes to suit,
machines write perfect but I provide flaws.
 
Now I have bemoaned a moan in a write
So, perfection not needed this, my right.