Oh, give us pleasure in the hitters to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the mid-July doldrums; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the pitchers, tall,
Like major leaguers now, like ghosts by fall;
And make us happy in the happy UTs,
Donald dilating round the batting tees.
And make us happy in Raffy P's darting pitch
That suddenly across the plate does twitch,
The manager that thrusts in with pre-shaped bill,
And still shines with a not yet "Cleveland'd" will.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
That which is reserved for Grady of glove,
To princely Asdrubal who shall not wilt,
Their's the only expectations we dare imagine fulfill'd.