The fans arise and yelp in glee, while hats are thrown in air;
The mighty chorus echoes from the ball yard to the square;
It rumbles down the valley and resounds from peak to peak,
And leagues away it travels on in one discordant shriek.
They stamp and shout in maddened rout; they joyfully embrace—
A smile of perfect happiness illumines every face;
Nor does the tumult quickly die, but, in exultant roar,
It gathers volume like the waves which lash the ocean’s shore.
“Then Larry must have made a hit and cleared the sacks,” you say,
“Thus winning with a mighty swat the hard-fought, brilliant fray!”
No, Larry didn’t make a hit; the cause of all this din,
The inshoot caromed off his bat and cracked the umpire’s shin.
SONGS OF SWAT—“YOU USTER BAT .300.”
A once Big Leaguer slid in home at 3 a.m. one morn
With a perfect fielding average in the League of Barleycorn.
He had pulled down fifteen high balls, every one quite warm and hot,
And at every chance presented he was Wagner on the spot.
But as he fumbled at the key his wife was waiting there
With his favorite ash furniture suspended in the air;
And as he tried to curve across she bunted at his head
And slammed a triple on his neck as viciously she said:
Chorus.
“You uster to hit .300—O, your batting was immense!
You uster slam ’em every day against the left field fence;
But now you’re in a bush league, for there ain’t no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”
The Leaguer tried to play it safe before she fanned him out.
“I’ll make a sacrifice,” he cried, “but ease up on that clout;
Hans Wagner never saw the day when he could hit like that.
I only wish that John McGraw could see you swing a bat.”
In vain he tried to score a run; in vain he shed each tear;
In vain he tried to reach his mask and breast protector near.
She tagged him all around the room, no matter how he’d slide,
And rapped out doubles on his back as viciously she cried:
Chorus.
“You uster to hit .300—O, your batting eye was great!
The pitchers uster to jump the league when you came to the plate;
But now they’ve got you faded, for there ain’t no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night.”