The Grand Old Winter League
Here’s to the league where they all hit three hundred;
Here’s to the league where they all bag the flag;
Here’s to the wonderful, mighty, and thunderful
Swat of the artist who’s springing the gag—
Springing the gag while the old stove is roaring,
Spieling of games that he won in the pinch;
Fence-breaking hammerer, clean-’em-up slammerer,
Where every pitcher he faced was a cinch.
Here’s to the league where they’ve all cinched the pennant—
Cinched with a line-up that’s keen on the job;
Where in the bingtime of oncoming springtime
Every guy signed is a “second Ty Cobb.”
Hail to the Wagners and dashing young Matthewsons—
There with the speed and the curves and control;
Swift-footed, heady, keen-eyed, and steady,
Already sewing the flag to the pole.
Here’s to the league where the hapless tail-ender
Rises each year to the crest of the game;
Where there is never an artist unclever,
Never a star that is injured or lame;
Where for a spell all the umpires are honest,
Where every mogul has shown keen intrigue;
Hip for the dope from the circuit of hope,
Hail to the glorious Typewriter League!