Poetry

Opening Chorus

Goodbye, everybody; goodbye, Jimmy Cal;
Goodbye, William Gleason; goodbye, Doc, old pal;
Sully, Matty, Harry, and Morrie, goodbye, goodbye.
Sure hope you all will feel sorry the same as I.
Goodbye, good old Edward; goodbye, little Ray;
Goodbye, all you White Sox—I quit gadding today.

[Encore]
Goodbye, Johnny Evers; goodbye, Lurid Lew;
Goodbye, Charley Williams; goodbye, Lower Two;
Schulte, Heine, Jimmy, and Larry, goodbye, goodbye.
P’rhaps you’ll look me up when you tarry awhile in Chi.
Goodbye, clams and swordfish; goodbye, Gay White Way;
Goodbye, joys of Brooklyn—I quit gadding today.

A Split Century

Half a C, half a C,
Half a C, sundered,
Cut from the other half,
Half a big hundred.
Forward the Cub Brigade!
“Charge at the umps!” they said,
But Zim in silence stood.
O you big hundred!

Past the Great Zim the pill
Whistled. “Strike three,” said Bill,
And the Great Heine knew
William had blundered;
His not to make reply,
His not to query why,
’Though ’twas outside and high.
Silence is golden, Zim.
O you big hundred!

Players to right of him,
Players to left of him,
Players in front of him
Hollered and thundered,
Bellowing like a calf
At the whole umpire staff,
But Heine’s jaws are locked,
Earning the other half
Of the big hundred.

Monday

A friend of mine, who reads the Wake (a friend he sure must be)
Had me to dine a week ago last Sunday,
And after we had dined awhile, the friend inquired of me:
“Why is the Wake so very short on Monday?”

I told him, and I’ll tell you, too—’twas thus my boss did speak:
“Each week, to rest your brain, we’ll give you one day.
We really can’t expect a man to keep a Wake all week,
So just send in a verse or two for Monday.”

And, yielding to the boss, which is the proper thing to do,
I set aside each Sunday as a fun day.
And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—all the whole week through—
I wonder wotinel to write for Monday.

Heine’s Soliloquy

The C or not the C, that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler for the dough to suffer
Mistakes and errors of outrageous umpires,
Or to cut loose against a band of robbers,
And, by protesting, lose it? To kick—to beef—
To beef!—perchance to scream: “Ah, there, you dub,
You ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———!!!”
But that sharp flow of breath, what would it cost,
A sloughing off of these one hundred bucks,
Must give me pause—there’s the respect
That makes dumb agony of two long weeks;
For who would bear the crazy work of Klem,
Cy Rigler’s slips, the raw mistakes of Quigley,
The guesses wild of Orth and Hank O’Day.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a few cuss words! Who would Brennan bear,
Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense,
But for the dread of dropping all that dough,
Of losing all those togs, deprived of which
No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still.
Thus money does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native Bronix disposition
Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc;
And ravings of my own fantastic sort
Are all unheard, though my long silence does
Disgrace the name of Heine.

Just Now—

Their game is
Famous
For its
Witless
Blunders;
Those runless,
Wonless,
Catchless,
Matchless,
Stopless,
Copless,
Useless,
Mooseless,
Spitless,
Hitless
Wonders

Come On, You Roseate Day!

When you’ve penned an especially bright bit of verse,
It’s good for one day in the year;
When you’ve made a neat hit or an epigram terse,
In only one sheet ’twill appear.
No matter how bright be the stuff that you write
About organized ball and its quarrels,
Don’t stop, trip, or shirk, but keep up the good work,
For you never can rest on your laurels.

When strenuous rhyming bedews your pale brow,
And you’ve gained an effect really snappy,
Don’t think, “That’ll hold ’em a while, and so now
I’ll rest up a bit and be happy.”
For when you do well, you have to excel
Your own lyrics and sonnets and chorals;
So keep on with the dance, O you Anatole France,
For you never can rest on your laurels.

Keep the engine a-going, the furnace keep hot,
With plenty of pepper and spice.
For you see that’s the kind of a job you have got—
Oh, I say, this is beaucoup advice!
But don’t get too good, or really you would
Revolutionize all baseball morals.
Ah, well, you should fret, for some day, you bet,
Some roseate day in the far, far away,
[Funereal? No, for I don’t mean it so],
You’ll take a long rest on your laurels.

To the New One

Some people think it is a shame
That Barbara is not your name.
Well, let them worry if they will;
Between us two, I’m glad you’re Phil.

If you were Barbara, I know
You’d cost your dad a lot more dough,
And when you maried, it would be
Like last night’s second round—on me.

And who’d expect a girl to fix
The furnace, or get up at six
And, in the well known early dawn,
Hoe garden or massage the lawn?

I guess it’s tough on you, old head
For some day you must earn your bread.
You’ll have to work, you’ll have to save,
And, worst of all, you’ll have to shave.

You’ll have to take some licking, too,
For Brother John will pick on you.
But p’rhaps you’ll grow to look like dad,
So cheer up, kid, life’s not so bad.

West Town Storm

I wonder if there’s anything
That I, tonight, can rhyme about.
It’s ’most too late to write of spring
And—Wait a bit; the lights are out.

Now naught to do but watch the flash
Of lightning, listen to the rain.
And tremble at the thunder’s crash
And—Wait a bit; they’re on again.

Where was I headed at the time
The darkness came? O, yes, I know;
I sought a subject for a rhyme.
Well—Wait a minute; there they go.

I wonder if my meter keeps
Right on when current’s on the bum.
Or if it, through the darkness, sleeps
And—Wait a minute; here they come.

Why didn’t you stay out all night,
False lights? For now ideas have fled.
I’ll wager, though, you’ll burn all right.
Yea, steadily, when I’m in bed.

This Afternoon

O shivering creatures
Down there in the bleachers,
And fans in the cold concrete stand,
You’ve willfully chosen
To come and get frozen,
While I must be here or get canned.

You leave when you care to,
While I must prepare to
Remain to the end, I suppose.
I’ll perish, I fear me,
But one thought will cheer me:
That I didn’t pay to be froze.

Baseball—A Sport

Players who jump for the dough,
Bandits and crooks, ev’ry one.
Baseball’s a pleasure, you know.
Players should play for the fun.

Magnates don’t care for the mon’.
They can’t be tempted with gold.
They’re in the game for the fun—
That’s why Collins was sold

The Youngest One Breaks In

Sound triumphal music!
Give three rousing cheers!
Shout the joyful tidings
In everybody’s ears!
Write it on the fences
In white and purple chalk!
Sing it from the housetop;
Brother Jim can talk!

Sentences? Of course not.
Don’t be so absurd.
So far he has uttered
Just a single word.
And the word? It’s “Daddy.”
Foxy boy is Jim;
If ’twere not, would daddy
Give this space to him.

I, when first I heard it,
Numskull that I am,
Thought that it was “Przemysl”;
Either that or “Damn.”
But of course it’s “Daddy,”
For it’s spoken when
Daddy’s here or going
Or coming back again.

Let the warring nations
War, if war they must;
Let the market weaken;
Let the banks go bust;
Let the cars quit running;
Let the people walk.
What care we for trifles?
Brother Jim can talk!

To the Man Higher Up

Sometimes I write my stuff at home
And bring it down with me.
When that’s the case, the stuff is good
As stuff of mine could be.

At other times I have to come
Before it’s off my mind,
And try to do it at the desk
To which I’ve been assigned.

And when, before the stuff is writ,
Downtown I have to come,
The stuff as maybe you have guessed,
Is very, very bum.

O Mr. Boss, you’d rather have
The good stuff, I presume.
If that is so, I pray you, sir,
Give me a Private Room

To the Latest

I love you, New Arrival;
I love you, No. 3.
That’s why I won’t allow them
To name you after me.

Make you the butt of wheezes
Such as I’m subjected to;
No, kid, I won’t allow them
To wish my name on you.

Help Wanted

I have no objection to washing your face
And putting your playthings back in their place,
And fixing your fruit and potatoes and bread
And reading you stories when you are in bed.

It’s not a bad job, being nursemaid to you
And most of my duties I cheerfully do,
But I’ll certainly welcome relief from the task
Of answering all of the questions you ask.

The Eternal Question

If I grow old before my day,
If, in a night, my hair turns gray,
’Twill be from answering when you say
“What for?”

If I have softening of the brain,
If I’m adjudged unsound, insane,
’Twill be from trying to explain
“What for?”

So, youngster, if ’tis your desire
To have a loony, senile sire,
Simply continue to inquire:
“What for?”

Exit Madge

Madge has moved back to the city,
With her year and a half of good cheer.
The neighborhood sighs, the neighborhood cries;
The neighborhood’s dismal and drear.

Madge has moved back to the city,
And left a young lover behind,
Who, mourning her loss, is excessively cross,
And very unwilling to mind.

Madge has moved back to the city,
With her smile and her curls and her fun.
And to make matters worse, she has taken her nurse,
Who took such good care of our son.

A Mysterious Antipathy

He’s a dear little thing, is No. 3,
Dear to his mother and dear to me,
While his older brother’s idea of bliss
Is to give him a gentle hug and kiss.
But the one ambition of Brother Jim
Appears to be to demolish him.

All that he does is eat and cry;
He wouldn’t and couldn’t harm a fly.
There’s nothing about him that might inspire
A brother’s aversion, a brother’s ire.
Nevertheless, his Brother Jim
Would give one eye for a slap at him.

He lacks attainments; he’s shy on looks,
Compared with his brothers, he has no books,
He has no games, and he has no toys
To make him the envy of other boys.
But the fact remains that his Brother Jim
Is looking for chances to wallop him.

Parting

I’ve got to leave my little ones
And journey through far eastern lands.
I’ve got to leave my three small sons
And trust their care to other hands.

Boys, will you miss me when I go?
Will you be wretched while your dear
Papa is absent from you? No,
You’ll get along all right, I fear.

First Aid

A rhyming dictionary is
A handy little thing.
My uncle, though, got tired of his
And passed it on to Ring.
So now, when hard up for a rhyme
And when I need one quick,
I save a lot of precious time
By looking up the Dic.

When I must rhyme with some tough word—
We’ll say, for instance, “twelve”—
’Tis then I grab my Dicky bird
And find “delve,” “helve,” and “shelve.”
Or if, as often is the case,
I want to rhyme with “babe,”
By looking in the proper place,
I run on “astrolabe.”

It happens every week or so
That I must rhyme with “doge.”
My book advises me to go
And utlize “gamboge.”
And when I seek a running mate,
A word to pair with “gulch,”
I do not have to hesitate;
I’m tipped right off to “mulch.”

Or when it’s necessary to
Wind up a line with “shalt,”
I find what p’rhaps is known to you,
There’s such a thing as “alt.”
Or when I cannot think offhand
Of playmates for “cartouch,”
I look into my booklet and
Am introduced to “smooch.”

My rhyming Dic’s a hit with me;
It really is a gem,
Containing all the words there be
And all the rhymes for them.
But what my book neglects to tell,
The thing my book leaves out,
Is whattheell and whotheell
To write my rhymes about.

Obituary

My eyes are very misty
As I pen these lines to Christy;
O, my heart is full of heaviness today.
May the flowers ne’er wither, Matty,
On your grave at Cincinnati
Which you’ve chosen for your final fadeaway.

Today’s Results

This is another Saturday
And many different teams will play.
It is my duty to predict
Which teams will win and which get licked;
And also for to prophesy
One single, solitary tie.

It looks to me as if the best
Two teams in this here middle west
Would give the Springfield fans a treat
When Wittenberg and Earlham meet,
And that school looks beat to me
Which turned out Birch, the referee.

East Lansing bugs will see the game
Between the Ags and Notre Dame
’Twill be a battle, but I am
Obliged to favor Notre Dame.
However, I’ll remain quite calm
If M.A.C. beats Notre Dame.

The Purple boys must step a few
To win their conflict with Purdue,
Which hasn’t had much luck of late
And by this time is desperate.
I think Ohio State’s fast pace
Will be a lot too fast for Case.

The Gophers will surprise this scribe
If they don’t trim the Badger tribe,
But they’ve surprised this scribe before,
And perhaps they’ll shock this scribe once more.
I’ll back them, though, for one thin dime,
For class has got to tell some time.

I’m picking Stagg’s Maroons to tie
Macomber’s men—I won’t tell why.
But if they don’t, believe me, boy,
’Twill be no romp for Illinois.
The Wolverines will brace and down
The Quaker team from Quaker Town.

I think that W. and J.
Will soundly trounce Ock’s team today.
(Ock’s team, I might explain to thee,
Is really Washington and Lee.)
I believe that Amherst has a lot
On Frankie Abbott’s Alma Mat’.

I say Cornell is in a class
Above the rustic Ags from Mass.,
And that the Harvard gang’s defense
Will stop the boys from Providence,
And that a Tiger’s toe will do
Some fatal damage to the Blue.

And if the teams that I have picked
To win do one and all get licked;
If victories are scored by Penn,
Purdue and Yale and so forth; then
Be sure to pan me; do not fail,
I love to get a lot of mail.

Exalted Above His Fellows

Amelia Galli-Curci, I presume, is justly proud
Of the voice that wins the plaudits of Chicago’s opera crowd;
The kaiser, very likely, is as chesty as can be
When he thinks of those courageous Teuts who fight for Germany;
Chick glows at his successes in the ancient Scottish game;
The relatives of Willard thrill at the mention of his name;
Frazee swells up to think that he now owns the Boston Sox;
But John’s the proudest thing on earth since he got the chicken pox.

Successes in the market have no doubt made Lawson glad;
Ohio State is tickled pink about the year it had;
The friends of Col. Lowden must be overcome with joy
To realize that he is now the Gov. of Illinois;
It makes Chief Henley happy that he kept the lid down tight;
It cheers the Lake Shore drive to think it wasn’t robbed last night;
But no one’s joy can be as great by many city blocks
As my son John’s since he acquired a case of chicken pox.

Daddy’s beneath all notice, for no doctor calls on him;
A fig for Bill who isn’t ill! A sneer for healthy Jim!
Who’s read to when he’s asked to be? Who’s promptly waited on?
Who’s salved and pitied when he cries? No one but my son John.
If it would please me half as much to scratch and scratch and scratch,
I’d buy myself a germing net and see what I could catch.
If I could get one-third his fun from medicine and docs
I would not be a day without a case of chicken pox.

Valentines

To a Rewrite Man:
Reporters furnish you with plot,
With facts, with dates, with names, and if you
Turn out good stuff sometimes—Why not?
You lucky stiff, you!

To a Dramatic Critic:
You write stuff once a week or so,
And when it’s punk, why, you should worry.
One alibi will always go:
“I had to write it in a hurry.”

To a Bold Editorial Writer:
They read him and they cry: He’s not afraid,
This supergink, to call a spade a spade!
He says Jess Willard’s just a great big bluff!
Yea, brothers, but he doesn’t sign his stuff.

To a Lineman:
When the pile of A1 contributions is low,
And Babette is especially cunning,
He phones to the office, “Because of the snow,
The Northwestern trains aren’t running.”

To a Society Editor:
Says, girls, don’t you think it must be just immense?
Can you imagine a job that’s as pleasant
As witnessing all the big nuptial events
Without being stung for a present?

To a Reel Critic:
She pays no attention to riffraff like me.
She thinks she is awfully smart,
’Cause she once got a letter from Francis X. B.
And an autographed picture from Hart.

To a Sporting Editor:
Wherefore that broad, contented smile, adorning
The visage of the editor of spo’t?
He doesn’t have to wait until the morning
To see the Gumps and read what L——r wrote.

To a Cashier:
Every day I murmur: “Lord!
How I love that Mr. W——d!”
Honest, Al, I think you’re fine.
Won’t you be my Valentine?

The New Club Boss

Some folks undoubtedly will speak
Of William Veeck as William Veeck,
But those who wish to be correc’
Will speak of him as William Veeck.