I used to lounge around the inn's lobby
By the Bering Room. While standing near a wobbly
Table— my pockets stuffed with change— I'd agree
To buy the best from those sorry boys, who trusted
Me after trading for their cards. Sorry,
It didn't matter much to them since they lusted
For quarters anyway— they didn't know
The deals those days. How could I let them go?
A quarter for Fisk— or any great name—
They took without a struggle in their eyes.
They never knew, they never worked the game,
And I wasn't about to hint or compromise.
They themselves played it big: They'd plead and trade
For what they saw were players a good grade
Above the rest—Rose, Ripkin, Jackson, Hough—
Then laugh behind some backs when done. My take
Was to fish out nibblers not smart enough
To know a real worm from the rubbery fake.
Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine
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