“Stranger, give me a chaw of terbaccer,”
Came from the lanky Georgia “cracker.”
“Know Ty Cobb? Wal, you bet we do!
Desperate youngster, tough clear through!
This is his home, but we ain't too proud.
We hope he'll stay with that Dee-troit crowd.
From all we hear, he spends his nights
Roamin' the streets and havin' fights.
And when he's playin', from what folks say,
He spikes a baserunner every day.
Stranger, we're all his father's friends,
But them wild young blades all strikes bad ends!”
“Is this where Mathewson lives?” I asked
Of a peaceful person, who calmly basked
Up on the side of a sunny hill
O'erlooking the town of Factoryville.
“He was born here, stranger,” the native said.
“What is the matter? Is he dead?
I wouldn't be sorry, to tell the truth,
For there is a mighty swelled up youth!
They tell me, those that follows them things,
Matty is one of baseball's kings.
That's a knock for him and his folks, I say,
'Cause baseball is crooked, anyway!”
Then I went to the home of John McGraw,
And hearkened well to the natives' jaw.
They mentioned John in a manner grim,
And told of all that they had on him.
And I went to the home of François Chance,
Hearing them give their idol the lance.
And to many another home I went,
Finding this truth to be evident:
He who wins fame by moving away
To a big league town will be wise to stay!
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