That general, who, when battle-banners wave,
Can spur his foaming charger toward the grave,
All these, when interviewers near them glide,
Sometimes, like startled children, run and hide.
Yes, Pencil, thou art potent in thy sting!
And yet we cannot hail thee Sanctum King.
Rise up, John Guttenberg, from lands remote,
And let us hear thy guttural German throat;
Now that the harvest that thou sowedst is ripe,
Make prominent the royal claims of Type!