by Grantland Rice
That poet did me dirty, for the mucker failed to say
A word about the pitcher “spitting” on the ball that day;
I remember well I saw him stick his fingers to his tongue,
He fired one at my noodle and it dropped below my lung.
I couldn’t soad the bloomin’ ball because it didn’t curve,
It zig-zagged from my head to knees so fast I lost my nerve,
And not only did it tiake me completely by surprise,
But I was half way blinded when the “spray” flew in my eyes.
“Hully gee,” says I in wonder, “that’s curvin’ ’em a few,”
You see it was the first “spitball” a pitcher ever threw;
I’d been against this bloke before and put him in the air,
But when the spitball butted in–well, Casey wasn’t there.
And that’s why in old Mudville the bands refused to play,
And that’s why hearts were heavy in place of being gay,
And also whey the children refused to cheer and shout,
But the spitball, not the pitcher, struck the mighty Casey out.
Quoted in Crazy ’08 by Cait Murphy
Published in History, Lyric | Link to this poem | No Comments