Base-Ball Ballads/A Tip to the Fan Flock
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A TIP TO THE FAN FLOCK.
Did you ever have the feeling you were "all in," down, and out,
As of mud upon your skylight, or your brain pan had the gout?
When you sauntered to your office in a semi-hearted way
And earned about one-seventh of your wage or daily pay?
When your energy had left you and your dizzy dome would throb
As you spent the day in yawning or four-flushing on your job?
Well, you have if you are human; so while out among the crowd
In the grandstand or the bleachers, shouting curses long and loud
At some "boot" or costly bobble, let the old dope trickle through
That perhaps the second baseman has the same old feeling too.
As of mud upon your skylight, or your brain pan had the gout?
When you sauntered to your office in a semi-hearted way
And earned about one-seventh of your wage or daily pay?
When your energy had left you and your dizzy dome would throb
As you spent the day in yawning or four-flushing on your job?
Well, you have if you are human; so while out among the crowd
In the grandstand or the bleachers, shouting curses long and loud
At some "boot" or costly bobble, let the old dope trickle through
That perhaps the second baseman has the same old feeling too.
While sparring with the cash book or the ledger in your den,
Don't you feel a brain-storm blowing in your noodle now and then?
When the numbers dance around you, while you're ripping, raving mad
That the pesky, peevish figures of the column fail to add?
When your orbs feel dry and blinky, and the harder that you look,
All the more the figures jumble on the pages of your book?
It's a cinch you've had the feeling; so before you seek the gore
Of some indicator wielder whose decisions blocked a score,
Stop and figure for a second; let the old dope trickle through
That the umpire is entitled to his little off-day too.
Don't you feel a brain-storm blowing in your noodle now and then?
When the numbers dance around you, while you're ripping, raving mad
That the pesky, peevish figures of the column fail to add?
When your orbs feel dry and blinky, and the harder that you look,
All the more the figures jumble on the pages of your book?
It's a cinch you've had the feeling; so before you seek the gore
Of some indicator wielder whose decisions blocked a score,
Stop and figure for a second; let the old dope trickle through
That the umpire is entitled to his little off-day too.