Page:Base-ball ballads (IA baseballballads00rice).pdf/109

THE LOVE SONNETS OF A SON OF SWAT.

I doped it out the first time that we faced
 To warm up good until I got control,
And then to curve a fast one round her waist,
 Hoping this way to put her in a hole.
Such was my dope; but, as I've said before,
The dope is not what makes the full box score.

V.
Ah, love, indeed thou art a heartless game.
 The gong rings out, the umpire shouts, "Play ball!"
 You rush out gaily till you hear her call:
"Back up, back up, your salary whip is lame.
What batting average stands against your name
 In Dun's or Bradstreet's little 'Guide to All?'
 You can't tag love inside a cottage wall
Minus the gate receipts—not with this dame!"

"Nix, not for mine," says she. "Fine chance to win
 We'd have with landlord on the rival team,
With grocer, butcher fielding up our tin
 And smashing liners into love's young dream.
Yours for a steady job and no fatigue
Before I sign with any Fireside League."

VI.
Much like the mutt with home plate well in sight,
 Who sprints on in with long, stake-winning stride,
 Bringing the tying run with bulging pride;
As hope once more soars upward, like a kite

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