ROUND after round they were falling, nobody reaching base, The pitcher making a monkey out of each terrible ace— Fanning and popping and grounding, never a man "getting on," Each of them just like a hayseed, caught by a new game of con— And, as each came to the batcave, after he'd missed every swing, All you could hear them repeating, "Why, he ain't got a darned thing!" Innings and innings were passing, all of them trying in vain, Whacking at air and mosquitoes, till they were almost insane— Popups to short and to second, soft ones a child couldn't muff, Everyone helpless and blinded, stung by the pitcher's neat stuff— Each of them looked like some battler whom Dempsey had caught in the ring— Yet they kept on repeating, "That bird ain't got a darned thing!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SIXTEEN MONTHS by CARL SANDBURG APRIL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE FACE ON THE [BAR-ROOM] FLOOR by HUGH ANTOINE D'ARCY TO ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF RUTLAND by BEN JONSON EXHORTATION TO PRAYER by MARGARET MERCER |