Telegraph Poem

By: PinkCheeseCake

My name is Boem,
And this is my poem.
I met my friend Graph,
The telegraph.
He told me,
How he,
Came to be.

Samuel Morse was his name,
Painting was his game.
His wife had died,
But he hadn’t cried.
He started to invent,
And that he meant

I came to be,
Just like he or she,
In 1830.

That year Andrew Jackson signed
The Indian Removal Act,
And that’s a fact.
I looked like a typewriter,
But I wasn’t a writer.

We might have lost the
War with the south,
If it wasn’t for me
And my mouth.

I did as much good
As I could.

I was fast,
And vast.
But I got out dated,
And that I hated.

Now I’m old
With a little mold.
Not even worth gold
But still as bold.

I was fired,
Now I can’t get hired,
So I’m retired.

Please publish
This poem,
Mr. Boem.