THE REAL SPRINGTIME.
I do not care about the spring
Of which the high-browed poets sing—
Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,
And all that sort of blooming thing.
I care not for the triolet
Which boosts the early violet,
Nor buzzing bees, nor budding tree,
Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;
The bard who brays of meadows green
To me is balmy in the bean.
Of which the high-browed poets sing—
Of vines, where budding blossoms cling,
And all that sort of blooming thing.
I care not for the triolet
Which boosts the early violet,
Nor buzzing bees, nor budding tree,
Nor scented stuff upon the breeze;
The bard who brays of meadows green
To me is balmy in the bean.
I do not care about the spring,
Of happy larks upon the wing,
Of mocking birds that rise and sing,
And all that fuzzy sort of thing;
I care not for the "April snow,"
Of white bloom wafted to and fro,
"The sunlit weather," purple heather,
Lovers-down-the-lane-together;
The dope who draws this brand of throb
To me is knotty in the knob.
Of happy larks upon the wing,
Of mocking birds that rise and sing,
And all that fuzzy sort of thing;
I care not for the "April snow,"
Of white bloom wafted to and fro,
"The sunlit weather," purple heather,
Lovers-down-the-lane-together;
The dope who draws this brand of throb
To me is knotty in the knob.
But hail—thrice hail—the golden spring
Which ushers in the spitball "fling;"
The echo of the three-base "bing,"
Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;
The shout across the Great Divide
Of "Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!"
The mighty roar that sings the score,
The chance to lap the umpire's gore;
T'ell with your mocking bird's spring call—
Give me the melody, "Play ball."
Which ushers in the spitball "fling;"
The echo of the three-base "bing,"
Which makes the Bugland welkin ring;
The shout across the Great Divide
Of "Slide, you bonehead lobster, slide!"
The mighty roar that sings the score,
The chance to lap the umpire's gore;
T'ell with your mocking bird's spring call—
Give me the melody, "Play ball."