On Memory’s Wall
Of all the horrible pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
Is one of a certain ball game
That seemeth the worst of all;
Not for the money wasted,
Counting the coin it cost;
Not that the umpire robbed us,
Not that the home team lost;
Not that the shortstop fumbled
Four balls, while I madly cursed,
Nor the catcher caught like a lobster—
It seemeth to me the worst.
I once had a little sweetheart
With eyes that were deep and dark;
Unto that game I took her
Into the baseball park.
Light as the down of thistles,
The fielders chased the ball;
Loud as the roar of tempests
Followed the rooters’ call;
And I heard my heart beat loudly
As our star man came to bat,
When my little sweetheart murmured:
“Say, look at that woman’s hat!”
Loudly the base hit rattled,
Bringing the tieing score;
Wildly the crowd upstarted,
Yelping a mighty roar;
Softly there came the whisper,
Ending my joyous fit:
“Why is that poor man running?
What is a three-base hit?”
Therefore of all the pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,
That one of a certain ball game
It seemeth the worst of all.