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A Converted Rooter
Say, on the level, fellows, just a year ago to-day
I wouldn't give a nickel for to watch them Yankees play;
The Joints was good enough for me, and since I was a kid
I hustled to the Polo Grounds and seen each stunt they did.
Yankees? Well, say, I couldn't see the Yankees with a glass;
I'd always say their style of play was very much high grass.
Yes, it was all the Polo Grounds—I never missed a game;
I'd go if I was blind and deaf and paralyzed and lame.
When Matty pitched I'd lose my head and outlung all the boys—
The ushers put me out once, when I made too blame much noise.
When Farrell's club was here instead, I used to go to Coney,
Because I always figgered that the Yanks was only phony.
But, say! I've changed my mind a lot, and that's no showgirl's dream;
If Farrell hadn't been all white, the Joints would be no team.
They didn't have no home at all after the fire that time,
But Farrell says, “Use my grounds, boys; I hope it helps you climb.”
A guy that does a thing like that, without no hot-air mush,
Can have my fifty cents a day, the same as John T. Brush!
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