(May Fifteenth.)
Cheer up, the race ain’t over yet, although our prospect’s frayed.
What matter if the team has dropped the first twelve games they’ve played?
It makes no difference, rooters, that we’re on the bottom rung;
Remember, fans, before you knock, the season’s very young.
(June Fifteenth.)
Say, Johnson, fire that Riley; he’s a lemon through and through.
Who told you Smith could play the game? And Jones is rotten too.
Can that big dub Jackson NOW, and throw him off the nine;
The infield you have signed for us is something of a shine.
(July First.)
I’ve seen some awful yellow teams in my day, I’ll admit;
But say, this bunch can’t catch a cold; they neither field nor hit.
Say, this is on the level: I could not believe my eyes
The day I saw that outfield squad drop fourteen easy flies.
When a shortstop makes twelve errors in one game, he’s getting stale;
The time has come to ride him out of town upon a rail;
And when a pitcher passes up a dozen men per game,
I wouldn’t like to say it, but I KNOW his proper name.
(July Fifteenth.)
Say, fire that Johnson right away, you guys that own the club;
He’s nothing but a wooden-headed, drunken, brainless dub.
He’s a holy show as manager, as I said from the first;
You’ve got to hand it to him as the one and only worst.