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.