I do not care about the spring
Of which the high-browed poets sing—
Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,
And all that sort of blooming thing.
I care not for the triolet
Which boosts the early violet,
Nor buzzing bees, nor budding trees,
Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;
The bard who brays of meadows green
To me is balmy in the bean.
I do not care about the spring,
Of happy larks upon the wing,
Of mocking birds that rise and sing,
And all that fuzzy sort of thing;
I care not for the “April snow,”
Of white bloom wafted to and fro,
“The sunlit weather,” purple heather,
Lovers-down-the-lane-together;
The dope who draws this brand of throb
To me is knotty in the knob.
But hail—thrice hail—the golden spring
Which ushers in the spitball “fling;”
The echo of the three-base “bing,”
Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;
The shout across the Great Divide
Of “Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!”
The mighty roar that sings the score,
The chance to lap the umpire’s gore;
T’ell with your mocking bird’s spring call—
Give me the melody, “Play ball.”
THE RAVEN UP-TO-DATE.
Last night while I pondered dreary, grouchy, sore, and limp and leary,
O’er the dope in my apartments, far up on the thirteenth floor;
As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some bill collector,” thought I, “rapping at my chamber door—
Only that and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, I was thinking of September,
And the finish of the league race—what the future had in store;
And I started prophesying where the pennant would be flying,
Till at last I gave up trying, feeling very sad and sore,
For the dope was so uncertain that I gave up sad and sore,
Grumbling slowly: “Nevermore.”
As I sat there, nearly bug house, longing for a near-by jug house,
Once again I heard the tapping, tapping at my chamber door;
So I oped it, shrinking craven, wishing for some happy haven,
When, behold! there flapped a Raven, stalking in across the floor—
Stalking Edgar Allen Poeish, right across my rugless floor.
Ach, du Leiber! I was sore.
“Raven!” cried I, “why the devil have you come here? On the level,
I thought Mr. Poe had written you would enter nevermore.
What has brought you, you intriguer, with that look so keen and eager?
Speak up there, you old bush leaguer; why have you returned, you bore?
State your trouble and then skip, sir; leave me quickly, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven: “What’s the score?”
A DAY IN THE BLEACHERS.
(Being a true chronicle of the comments offered by Mike the Bite as the game was in progress, wedged into verse.)