No Joy In Mudville

Casey At The Bat
(A Ballad of the Republic)

1888, by Ernest L. Thayer (with apologies to him)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville blogs that day,
The score stood four to zip, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Dowd died at first, and Krugman did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which made them sit and stare.

They thought, "if only Fitzy could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Fitzy at the bat."

But Clarke preceded Fitzy, as did also Joe III;
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a turd.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Fitzy getting to the bat.

But Clarke let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Joe, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Joe safe at second and Clarke a-hugging third.

Then from a thousand blogs and more there rose a lusty cheer;
it resounded through the WorldWideWeb and in the blogosphere;

it pounded on the radio, was stamped down by the press;
for Fitzy, mighty Fitzy, marched into the mess.

There was ease in Fitzy's manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Fitzy's bearing and a smile lit Fitzy's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Fitzy at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand keystrokes typed when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Fitzy's eye, a sneer curled Fitzy's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Fitzy stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Fitzy.

"Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Fitzy raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Fitzy's visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Fitzy and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Fitzy wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Fitzy's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Fitzy's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville --
mighty Fitzy has struck out:


TOP WHITE HOUSE ADVISOR KARL ROVE IS CLEARED OF ANY CHARGES IN THE "CIA LEAK" INVESTIGATION.

[P.S. What the poor, unhinged Bush-Haters were never able to grasp is that Investigator Patrick Fitzgerald was never on Mudville's team, was never Casey: He was the umpire.]