Well I Might Not Be The Best Typist

I wrote this song when I was about 15. It had an inherent melody that I have never forgotten. At the time I wrote it, much to my dismay, I could not figure out the appropriate accompanimentof guitar chords. Now I think I know it, though I haven't tried in some time. I have always very much liked the song and would like to finish it. The last stanza presented here was written some time later. Still, I do't believe it is finished.

Well I might not be the best typist
and I might not go to the clubs
but I do know who you can get with
he'll type up all your stuff
all your stu-uff

his name is Steve
he has a red beard
and hands of pure gold
He can type forever
and he'll never mis a key
unless he's told

His number is 5555555566
and his dinner is ketchup french fries salt pepper and fish sticks
And he goes to the clubs
and has some fun
Give him a job
He gets it done
For a small fee

His fee will put a hole in your pocket
It's sad but it's true
You feed him dinner every night
then he'll know what to do
and so will you

I oughta work this one out for stage. Oh, i didn't tell you? I'm gonna start trying to play on stage. I know, I better clean up that myspace. Songs about drugs, Oregon trail gigolos, and... marching. Gotta family-friendly it - censor myself a little. Just like I do here! In the Blog. I hereby contradict my first post. Shit yeah! There I swore.