The Twins
C on was a thorn to brother Pro—
On Pro we often sicked him:
Whatever Pro would claim to know
Old Con would contradict him!
A Printer’s Madrigal
(Extremely technical)
I’d like to have you meet my wife!
I simply cannot keep from hinting
I’ve never seen, in all my life,
So fine a specimen of printing.
Her type is not some bold-face font,
Set solid. Nay! And I will say out
That no typographer could want
To see a better balanced layout.
A nice proportion of white space
There is for brown eyes to look large in,
And not a feature in her face
Comes anywhere too near the margin.
Locked up with all her sweet display
Her form will never pi. She’s like a Corrected proof marked stet, O. K.—
And yet she loves me, fatface Pica!
She has a fine one-column head,
And like a comma curves each eyebrow—
Her forehead has an extra lead
Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.
Her nose, italicized brevier,
Too lovely to describe by penpoint;
Her mouth is set in pearl: her ear
And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.
Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis)
Make my pulse beat 14-em measure,
And such typography as this
Would make De Vinne scream with pleasure.
And so, of all typefounder chaps
Her father’s best, in my opinion;
She is my nonpareil (in caps)
And I (in lower case) her minion.
I hope you will not stand aloof
Because my metaphors are shoppy;
Of her devotion I’ve a proof—
I tell the urchin, Follow Copy!