HE SITS down in the press-box, knowing well That everybody is his deadliest foe— Maybe he has a friend outside the park, But, in that big enclosure—no, no, no! He says, "An error," and the other scribes Receive his ruling with loud tomcat yowls, While, on the field, the players dance with rage, Emitting sundry fierce and hideous howls! He says, "A hit," and rude guffaws are heard, From every other writer in the box, And the sarcastic pitcher hints he should Be locked up with a hammer, cracking rocks! Compared to him, the very umpires know Applause and happiness, while all he has, Beside a few small coins for extra work, Is general derision and the razz! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD ON THE RHINE by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES TRULY GREAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES RESIGNATION by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ELEGIAC SONNET: 44. WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH YARD AT MIDDLETON IN SUSSEX by CHARLOTTE SMITH I SHALL LIVE TO BE OLD by SARA TEASDALE |