IN THE GOOD OLD WINTER TIME.
(Old, but to the point. As sung by the fan chorus around many circuits.)
I.
An old fan sat one day at a table, small and round,
Drinking every kind of liquid which in that place could be found.
He had forty-seven chances, and he never fumbled one,
Catching sixteen sparkling high balls ere he scored his first home run.
An old fan sat one day at a table, small and round,
Drinking every kind of liquid which in that place could be found.
He had forty-seven chances, and he never fumbled one,
Catching sixteen sparkling high balls ere he scored his first home run.
While sitting at that table he began to read the dope,
Which depicted every manager in front up Pennant Slope;
But soon in dreamy fancy from the page he turned away,
And to the near-by barkeep these idle words did say:
Which depicted every manager in front up Pennant Slope;
But soon in dreamy fancy from the page he turned away,
And to the near-by barkeep these idle words did say:
Chorus.
"In the good old winter time, the good old winter time,
How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb.
They call each new recruit a 'peach,' although he is a 'lime.'
O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!"
"In the good old winter time, the good old winter time,
How swiftly from the bottom all the tail-end people climb.
They call each new recruit a 'peach,' although he is a 'lime.'
O how they nature-fake us in the good old winter time!"
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