A Day in the Bleachers
(Being a true chronicle of the comments offered by Mike the Bite as the game was in progress, wedged into verse.)
I
W’at’s dat? A ball! Aw, say, yer make me weary.
Why don’t yer call dem strikes, you Jesse James?
No wonder dat the ball club’s lookin’ leery,
Wid blind men on de job empirin’ games.
I’m glad I left my watch at home, you pirate,
When I see de style wot goes wit’ you to-day.
Why, dat Ali Baba geezer was a fat-head bush league teaser
When it gits down to de scientific way.
II
Wake up, you fathead! Take a wallop at it!
Swing at dem balls wot slopes across de plate!
Don’t stand dere like a blear-eyed mummy—bat it!
is ain’t no place to dream, you drunken skate.
T’ree strikes and out, and still yer’re on de pay roll.
I only wisht I owned dis baseball club;
An’ de first t’ing dat I’d do would be to hitch a can to you
’Bout de size of Lookout Mountain, Mr. Dub.
III
Say, dat guy playin’ second is a dandy.
Did yer pipe him block dat bingle on de bound?
He’s got Ted Roosevelt double-crossed fur candy
When it comes to swingin’ hard and coverin’ ground;
But de mutt wot went and booted dat last roller—
He’d duck to-night if I but had my wish.
In my time I t’ink I’ve seen a bunch o’ dubs some punkerino,
But dat feller couldn’t ketch contagious fish!