YOU’RE NOT A FAN, PIERRETTE
I’ll take you to the Follies, dear,
If there you think you’d like to go;
I’ll buy you beaucoup wine and beer
Down at the gay Casino show;
In short, I’ll do whatever task
Your little heart desires to name
Save one: You must not ever ask
To see another baseball game.
Your understanding is immense
At “compreying” the jokes they spring
In vaudeville shows—and you’re not dense
Because you like to hear me sing.
But, cherie, you will never be
The one to set my heart aflame,
Because you simply cannot see
The inside of a baseball game.
When you and I were watching while
The Doughboys battled the Marines,
Did classy hitting make you smile?
Did you rejoice in home run scenes?
Ah, no; when Meyer slammed the pill—
They couldn’t find it for a week—
You turned to me and said, “Oh, Bill,
I sink hees uniform ees chique.”
And did you holler “Atta Boy!”
When Powell zipped ’em, one, two, three,
And made the Doughboys dance with joy—
Was yours the voice that rose in glee?
Not so; you made your escort feel
Like one big, foolish, roasted goose,
When all the bleachers heard you squeal,
“But, Bill, hees nose ees so retrousse.”
So when you don your new chapeau
Hereafter for a promenade,
Remember that no more we’ll go
To sit beneath the grandstand shade;
Your curtain calls are surely great
Where Thespians tread the boards of fame,
But, Gosh! you can’t appreciate
A good old Yankee baseball game.
S. H. C.