Over the idle Linotype
the Lino machinist stands.
Not a brain within his head
just large and horny hands.
Each morning late to work he comes,
each evening early goes.
Nothing accomplished, nothing done.
his thoughts are of repose.
Layered with cobwebs, covered with dust,
lonely his toolbox stands.
While inside, tools covered with rust,
untouched by human hands.
A mid-morning snooze, an afternoon nap,
surely better things to do.
Then to tug away on a greasy old wrench
or oil a thing or two.
The mats won't drop, the pump won't pump,
the slugs fall on the floor.
"I'll get it later, take another machine!"
"You've got eleven more!"
So cheer the old machinists,
though their numbers now are few.
And thanks to Ottmars’ great design
they did less than most of you!