“I was with Clarke,” the pitcher said
To the Pittsburg millionaire.
The rich man bowed his silvery head
To the pitcher standing there.
“Enough, good man! Give me your mitt!
Walk right in, I implore.
Fred Clarke or any friend of his
Finds here an open door.”
“I was with Clarke,” the pitcher said.
“Never mind,” the rich man cried.
“Right over there is a Morris chair—
Come, sit you by my side.
And so you pitched for Clarke. Well, well!
Try a flagon of this wine,
For any friend of Frederick Clarke
Is sure a friend of mine.”
“I was with Clarke,” the twirler said.
“So you told me,” said his host.
“Fill up your glass, and let me pass
The best cigar I boast.”
“As I was saying,” the pitcher cried,
Taking a puff and sip,
“As I was saying, I was with Clarke
On one Spring training trip!”
Then from his cozy seat arose
That Pittsburg millionaire.
He grabbed the stranger by the nose
And yanked him from his chair.
And then he closed the truthful eyes
And split the lower lip
Of the man who was with Frederick Clarke
On one Spring training trip. |
