Late in the newsroom, lights are low
Layouts drifting, margins go
Something hums behind the screen
A crooked line you’ve never seen

Baselines wobble, letters slide
Spacing falls from side to side
When type goes wrong and hope is worn
We look around: “Where’s Peter Korn?”

Who you gonna call? Peter Korn!
When your headlines tilt and your titles mourn
Who you gonna call? Peter Korn!
He keeps the serif sharp and the sans reborn
From the smallest glyph to a page full-blown
No one saves the type like Peter Korn

Baseline drifting? He’ll detect it
Kerning crooked? He’ll correct it
When a font looks strange, or a letter’s torn
We whisper low: “Should we call Korn?”

Broken letters, fractured grids
He lifts the chaos, calms the bids
When layouts tremble, frayed and torn
We smile and say: “Bring Peter Korn.”

Who you gonna call? Peter Korn!
When your captions shake like they’re weather-worn
Who you gonna call? Peter Korn!
He tunes the lines till a new day’s born
If the screen cries out in a silent tone
Call the master: Peter Korn.

Now he’s leaving, calm and kind
Gentle hands, a focused mind
But still we’ll hear that inner horn:
“This line’s off by a hair... ask Korn.”

A youthful soul will turn and sigh
“What would Korn do?” and then they’ll try

So here’s to the man who aligned our days
Turned messy thoughts to quiet arrays
A steady hand, a guiding tone
Thank you always... Peter Korn!