Explore "The Catch of the Season" by Norman Gale on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He was a person most unkempt, / And answered to the name of Cust. / He had a frenzied mass of hair, / A little redder than red rust, / And trousers so exceeding short / It looked as if by mounting high / They meant unceasingly to try / To change to knickers on the sly.
He was a person whom a Bat / Could view without the least distrust. / He caught me at the fifth attempt -- / Imagine my profound disgust! / For if the ball had gone to hand / I had not felt the least unrest; / But, as it happened (Fate knows best! ) / It struck him smartly on the chest.
I cannot tell you how he squirmed / And capered on the greensward there, / Until at last he took the ball / (Or so it seemed) from out his hair, / And meekly rubbed the coming bruise. / Thus was I humbled in the dust / Because of Albert Edward Cust. / Imagine my profound disgust!
Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun, / Here's to the joy that we ponder; / Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun / When the babes of our babies are -- Yonder!