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SONGS OF SWAT—"YOU USTER BAT .300."
A once Big Leaguer slid in home at 3 a.m. one morn
With a perfect fielding average in the League of Barleycorn.
He had pulled down fifteen high balls, every one quite warm and hot,
And at every chance presented he was Wagner on the spot.
But as he fumbled at the key his wife was waiting there
With his favorite ash furniture suspended in the air;
And as he tried to curve across she bunted at his head
And slammed a triple on his neck as viciously she said:
With a perfect fielding average in the League of Barleycorn.
He had pulled down fifteen high balls, every one quite warm and hot,
And at every chance presented he was Wagner on the spot.
But as he fumbled at the key his wife was waiting there
With his favorite ash furniture suspended in the air;
And as he tried to curve across she bunted at his head
And slammed a triple on his neck as viciously she said:
Chorus.
"You uster to hit .300—O, your batting was immense!
You uster slam 'em every day against the left field fence;
But now you're in a bush league, for there ain't no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night."
You uster slam 'em every day against the left field fence;
But now you're in a bush league, for there ain't no guy in sight
Can bat around three hundred, Bo, who bats around all night."
The Leaguer tried to play it safe before she fanned him out.
"I'll make a sacrifice," he cried, "but ease up on that clout;
"I'll make a sacrifice," he cried, "but ease up on that clout;
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