Poet Tree With Mist Aches

I have a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye cannot sea

When eye strike a quay,
ore right a word
I weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar wright
It shows me strait away.

As soon as a mist ache is made
It nose bee fore two late
And eye can put the error rite
Its rarely, rarely grate

I've run this poem threw it
I'm shore your please to no
It's letter perfect in it's weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.