“I used to have 'em buffaloed when I was with Duluth,
Out in that dinky pine tree league, and here's the honest truth:
This Mathewson ain't better. Say, the benders that I slung
Had all the sluggers swinging till they'd almost bust a lung.
I'll get 'em just the same right here—McGraw knows I can't lose.”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's.
“I lost a tough game yesterday, but that don't make me sad;
Believe me, I had everything—they walloped all I had.
I didn't get no swell support; my catcher crossed me twice
And all the infield acted like a wagon full of ice.
They all support this Mathewson. When I go in we lose!”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's.
“I've been here just two months to-day, and things are looking black;
I lost a tough one yesterday, and now I've got the sack.
Say, everyone's against me, kid. My curve is breaking great,
But four guys slammed it yesterday clear to the left field gate.
Now I'm released—you hear me? Released with run-down shoes!”
Said the Pitcher to the Barboy up at Paddy Donahue's.
“Get out of here, you rummy! I can't hand you no more booze!”
Said the Barboy to the Pitcher up at Paddy Donahue's.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.