Bing! on de nose—O wow! O wow! Beyond de fielder’s mitt.
Say, where’s de bloomin’ guy wot said dat lobster couldn’t hit?
I guess he didn’t get to dat last bender wid de wood,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you I knowed de hobo could?
Three runs across de bloomin’ plate, and now de scrap’s a cinch;
Dere never was a guy like him to clout one in a pinch;
Right on de nose across de lot, beyond de outfield’s reach,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat lobster was a peach?
II.
Say, maybe dis ain’t pie to-day wid Mickey on de hill;
Dey couldn’t beat dat sucker if he handed ’em de pill;
He ain’t lost one in fourteen weeks, and any time dey get
A base hit when he’s workin’ right just sue me for de debt.
You’ve got to hand it to him, Bo, and dat’s no foolish tip,
He makes dose bloomin’ batters look like chickens wid de pip;
I’ll take me bonnet off to him—he’s kept us in de race,
Fer minus him I’d bet me coat we’d be in seventh place.
Two doubles and a base on balls here in de openin’ round?
I wonder why de manager leaves dat mutt on de mound?
Another hit, another pass! See here, you crazy lout,
Why don’t you warm a pitcher up and take dat bonehead out?
Who said dat guy could pitch a ball? Dere goes another pass.
Dat mucker ain’t got smoke enough to crack a pane of glass.
De minute he walked in de box I knowed we’d hit the ditch,
An’ wasn’t I just tellin’ you dat hobo couldn’t pitch?
THE LOVE SONNETS OF A SON OF SWAT.
I.
Take it from me, this Single League’s shine,
My heart got batted from the box to-day;
For when we met, the dope says right away:
“She bats .300 on the Peaches’ Nine.”
I’d draft her now, if I thought she would sign
And help me divvy up a season’s pay.
I pitched this at her, but my grandstand play
Went wild. Says she: “No bush league dub for mine.”
Say, she’s the big league kid, or I’m a skate;
For every time I come up—zip, like that,
She shoots those lamps of hers across the plate,
And I strike out, like Casey on a bat;
For when she curves one over from those eyes,
“Three strikes and out” is just about my size.
II.
Speaking of curves, say, on the level, Bo,
She’d make Waddell look like a dinky-dink,
And Eddie Reulbach’s straight without a kink;
For she’s all curves from neck four feet below—
Out-curves and in-shoots, all there in a row.
Compared to hers, Ed Plank’s are on the blink.
If Hughey Jennings sees her, I don’t think
“Wild Bill” next year will get a chance to show.