Found in a 1960 MAD collection, The Self-Made MAD, complete with Don Martin illustrations. No writer is given credit for the piece. This is best when read out loud.
The action wasn’t groovy for the Endsville nine that day;
The beat was 4 to 2 with just one chorus more to sway.
And when old Cooney conked at first, and Burrows also sacked,
A nowhere rumble bugged up all the cats who dug the act.
A hassled group got all hung up and started in to split;
The other cats there played it cool and stayed to check the bit:
They figured if old Casey could, like, get in one more lick –
We’d put a lot of bread down, Man, on Casey and his stick!
But Flynn swung before Casey, and also Cornball Blake,
And the first stud couldn’t make it, and the other couldn’t fake;
So the cats and all their chicks were dragged and in a bluesy groove,
For it was a sucker’s long-shot that old Casey’d make his move.
But Flynn blew one cool single, and the hipsters did a flip,
And Blake, who was a loser, gave the old ball quite a trip;
And when the tempo let up, like a chorus played by Bird,
There was Cornball stashed at second and Flynn holed up at third.
Then from five thousand stomping cats there came a crazy sound;
It rocked through all the scene, Man – it really rolled around;
It went right to the top, Dad, and it charged on down below,
For Casey, swinging Casey, he was comin’ on to blow!
There was style in Casey’s shuffle as he came on with his stick;
There was jive in Casey’s strutting; he was on a happy kick.
And when, to clue in all the cats, he doffed his lid real big,
The Square Johns in the group were hip: t’was Casey on the gig.
Ten thousand peepers piped him as he rubbed fuzz on his palms;
Five thousand choppers grooved it when he smeared some on his arms.
Then while the shook-up pitcher twirled the ball snatched in his clutch,
A hip look lit up Casey, Man, this cat was just too much!
And now the crazy mixed-up ball went flying out through space.
But Casey, he just eyed it with a cool look on his face.
Right at that charged-up sideman, the old ball really sailed-
“That’s too far out!,” sang Casey. “Like, Strike One!” the umpire wailed.
From the pads packed high with hipsters, there was heard a frantic roar,
Like the beating of the bongos from a frenzied Be-Bop score,
“Knife him! Knife that ump, Man” wailed some weirdo left-field clown;
And they would have cut the cat up, but cool Casey put them down.
With a real gone Beatnik grin on him, old Casey cooked with gas;
He fanned down all that ribble, and he sang, “On with this jazz!”
He set the pitcher straight, and once again the old ball flew;
But Casey wouldn’t buy it and the ump howled, “Like, Strike Two!”
“He’s sick!” wailed all the hipsters, and the Squares, too, sang out “Sick!”
But a nod from Daddy Casey, and the cats got off that kick.
They dug the way he sizzled, like his gaskets were of wax;
They were hip that Casey wouldn’t let the ball get by his ax.
The cool look’s gone from Casey’s chops, his eyes are all popped up;
He stomps his big ax on the plate, he really is hopped up.
And now the pitcher cops the ball, and now it comes on fast,
And now the joint is jumping with the sound of Casey’s blast.
Man, somewhere in this far-out scene, the sun is packing heat:
The group is blowing somewhere, and somewhere guts are beat,
And somewhere big cats break up, and small cats raise the roof;
But there is no joy in Endsville – Swinging Casey made a goof.
Published in Fans, History, Songs and Parodies, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 3 Comments