by Dan Campion
There is no mud in Joyville.
Their Casey never whiffs.
His every at-bat sends a thrill
Through kids and working stiffs.
The gunshot when he clouts the pill
Resounds throughout the town.
Maids whisper, “O, my heart, be still!”
Cops fine you if you frown.
Off-field, their Casey works his will:
The town gave him its keys.
A batter with his peerless skill
Should thrive, Joyville agrees.
But Joyville’s championships are nil.
Their offense is a tease,
For Casey’s glove is typical:
Balls scoot between his knees.
And thus there is no dashing rill,
no pond, no lake, no mud,
no tide of trophies on the sill.
The Joyville nine’s a dud.