Morse

And now the Mighty Saybrugians came hurtling through the air,/ And Morsels stood a-watching them in haughty grandeur there./ Close by the sturdy batsmen the Brook unheeded sped—/ "That ain't my style," said Morse. "Strike one," the umpire said.

With a smile of IM charity great Morsels' visage shone;/ They stilled the rising tumult; they bade the game go on;/ They signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;/ But Morsels still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

The sneer is gone from Morsels' lips, their teeth are clenched in hate;/ They pound with cruel violence their bats 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 Morse's blow.

Oh, somewhere on the IM fields the sun is shining bright;/ The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,/ And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;/ Will there be joy in Morseville? In short time we shall find out.

(Compiled by Ernest Thayer, an IM prognosticator well ahead of his times.)

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