Base-ball ballads (IA baseballballads00rice).pdf/91

Exported from Wikisource on June 25, 2024

THE WINTER LEAGUE WONDER.

THOUGH I've never won a pennant in the race that starts each spring,

And the finish every autumn finds me muchly to the "punk;"

Though through June, July, and August you can hear the anvils ring

As the critics in a body dub my team a bunch of "junk,"

You have got to hand it to me on a silver platter when

The summer scramble's over. Though some other mogul wins,

I'm the one and only wonder of the "coming season" then,

When the last real game is over and the winter league begins.

Though each October finds me under every rival's heel,

Twenty games behind the others, do I stop and shed a tear?

Not upon your uncle's portrait. I begin right off the reel

Lining up my winter legions for a "sure first next year."

87

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Table of Contents

Title page

Base-ball ballads (IA baseballballads00rice).pdf/91

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