As I am writing on this contraption
This business of hitting letters differs not much
From climbing some mountain in winter
Using a stick and some decent equipment
 
These square letters are like some unreachable cliffs
 
I type with gloves on made of rough wool
My nose is red like on some Tibetan village girl
And the soil where these letters were trampled upon
Is so hardened that it turned black
 
Though there is a slim chance that I will make it to the top
 
I will make a stop by the nearest hut
Spewing fumes all around
To rest a bit sipping that black liquid from samovar
 
So I can continue walking on the frozen gutturals
That generally there at the top
Coagulate into a white death