The Ballad Of The Minor Leaguer
He came here in the early Spring with all the tryout mob,
Striving to bat like Wagner and to slide (spikes first) like Cobb.
Some of the vets cried, "Bonehead!" Others remarked, "Poor zob!"
Modest as Spring's arbutus, calm as an April dawn,
He asked for no advances though his ticker was in pawn;
He learned the law from Jawn McGraw but never called him "Jawn."
He graced the bench until July, leading the simple life--
He wouldn't touch a cocktail once to please a schoolmate's wife;
The slightest hint of a "creme de mint" would cut him like a knife.
The village smith that stood beneath the spreading chestnut tree
Had nothing on this youngster in the dodging of a spree.
Others could tipple if they would--not for Recruit McGee.
Thus did the minor leaguer seek for affluence and fame--
Virtue's its own reward at times, but oft it pulls up lame.
Now he has went back to the place from which he once had came!
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