John Bourbon, Pitcher

They tell me that Matty can pitch like a fiend,
But many long years before Matty was weaned
I was pitching to players, and good players, too,
Mike Kelley and Rusie and all the old crew.
Red Sockalexis, the Indian star,
Breitenstein, Clancy, McGill and McGarr.
Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be,
But where in the world is a pitcher like me?

My name is John Bourbon, I'm old, and yet young;
I cannot keep track of the victims I've stung.
I've studied their weaknesses, humored their whims,
Muddled their eyesight and weakened their limbs,
Bloated their faces and dammed up their veins,
Rusted their joints and beclouded their brains.
Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be,
But where in the world is a pitcher like me?
I have pitched to the stars of our national game,
I have pitched them to ruin and pitched them to shame.
They laughed when they faced me, so proud of their strength,
Not knowing, poor fools, I would get them at length.
I have pitched men off pinnacles scaled in long years.
I have pitched those they loved into oceans of tears.
Matty a pitcher? Well, yes, he may be,
But where in the world is a pitcher like me?
John Bourbon, Pitcher

by William F. Kirk, 1910
