"Type," said the Foreman, "was made to read,
And that is a maxim it's well to heed,
For the printer frequently gets a start
With a craze for 'beauty', a bug for 'art',
Which holds him fast in a fearful gripe
And keeps him trying mad stunts with type,
With seventeen fonts and seventy styles
And borders by thousands and rules by miles.
"Type," said the Foreman, "was made to read,
And that should serve as the printer's creed,
For work on the Linotype machine
Or hand-set jobs should be clear and clean,
Not ornamental, obscure, bizarre,
Composed of all of the fonts there are,
But simple, legible, quiet, plain,
A joy alike to the eye and brain!
"Type," said the Foreman, "was made to read,
But the printer, oftentimes, in his greed
For novel features and 'class' and 'tone',
Forgets this fact he has always known
And sends out work that is fine to see
And 'smart' and 'natty' as it can be,
A job with swagger and high-bred look,
But hard to read as a Chinese book!
"For art in printing is not the way
Of wild extravagance, weird display,
But rather the unobtrusive thrall
Of type that gives you no shock at all,
But draws your eye to the page with zest
And holds your mind to the thought expressed;
We must keep ourselves to this simple creed,
Type was made - and is meant - to READ!"