A Plea
Writers of baseball, attention!
When you’re again on the job–
When, in your rage for invention,
You with the language play hob–
Most of your dope we will pardon,
Though of the moth ball it smack;
But-cut out the ‘sinister garden,’
Chop the ‘initial sack.’
Rake poor old Roget’s 'Thesaurus’
For phrases fantastic and queer;
And though on occasions you bore us,
We will refrain from a sneer.
We will endeavour to harden
Ourselves to the rest of your clack,
If you’ll cut out the 'sinister garden’
And chop the ‘initial sack.’
Singers of words that are scrambled,
Say, if you will, that he ‘died,’
Write, if you must, that he 'ambled’-
We shall be last to deride.
But us to the Forest of Arden,
Along with the misanthrope Jaques,
If you cling to the 'sinister garden’
And stick to ‘initial sack.’
Speak of the 'sphere’s aberration,’
Mention the ‘leathery globe,’
Say he got 'free transportation’-
Though that try the patience of Job.
But if you’re wise you’ll discard en–
Cumbrances such as we thwack–
Especially 'sinister garden’
And the 'initial sack.
