Base-Ball Ballads/A Day in the Bleachers
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.)
I.W'at's dat? A ball! Aw, say, yer make me weary. Why don't yer call dem strikes, you Jesse James?No wonder dat the ball club's lookin' leery, Wid blind men on de job empirin' games.I'm glad I left my watch at home, you pirate, When I see de style wot goes wit' you to-day.Why, dat Ali Baba geezer was a fat-head bush league teaser When it gits down to de scientific way.
II.Wake up, you fathead! Take a wallop at it! Swing at dem balls wot slopes across de plate!Don't stand dere like a blear-eyed mummy—bat it! Dis ain't no place to dream, you drunken skate.T'ree strikes and out, and still yer're on de pay roll. I only wisht I owned dis baseball club;An' de first t'ing dat I'd do would be to hitch a can to you 'Bout de size of Lookout Mountain, Mr. Dub.
III.Say, dat guy playin' second is a dandy. Did yer pipe him block dat bingle on de bound?He's got Ted Roosevelt double-crossed fur candy When it comes to swingin' hard and coverin' ground; But de mutt wot went and booted that last roller— He'd duck to-night if I but had my wish.In my time I t'ink I've seen a bunch o' dubs some punkerino, But dat feller couldn't ketch contagious fish!