Sunday, September 06, 2009
Obama at the Bat (a take on Casey at the Bat)
The other day I forwarded an e-mail to my friends and family,
I was disappointed with yet another decision by the Obama administration, at the end of the e-mail I wrote, “It’s a sad day in Mudville,” in a reference to the famous poem Casey at the Bat. Then before I sent the e-mail, I thought about that line. Then I thought about how so many people put an unrealistic amount of hope into Obama’s ability to single handedly change the government.
Then I realized that given the current state of the economy, the war in Afghanistan, Gitmo, the Cash-for-Clunkers missteps, and the 16 point fall in the polls that Obama was a lot like Casey. So, I took the liberty of changing some of the words to the famous poem, its written below. Enjoy. If you have forgotten the famous poem, scroll to the bottom and read the poem, it will help you with the rhyme and rhythm of my version.
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for America that day:
The election was close, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Edwards died in June, and Romney did the same,
A sickly 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 springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Obama could get a whack at that –
We'd put up even money, with Obama at the bat.
But John went after Bar-rack, as did also Hillary,
The former was a hero, the latter an enemy;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Obama getting to bat.
With Palin nominated, to the wonderment of all,
Mc-Cain, the much despis-ed, began his steady clumsy fall;
And when the dust had lifted, the men saw what had occurred,
There was Biden safe at second and Clinton hugging third.
Then from 5 million throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, and it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Barrack, mighty ‘bama, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Obama’s style as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Sharpton’s bearing and a smile on Jesse’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Obama at bat.
The whole world’s eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five billion tongues rejoiced when he rolled the sleeves of his shirt.
While the new majority started shooting from their hip,
Defiance gleamed in Boehner’s eye, a sneer curled Michelle’s lip.
And now Chrysler, G-M and A-I-G cruised through the air,
And Bar-rack stood a-watching ‘em in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Barrack. "Strike one," Rush Limbaugh 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 Rush Limbaugh!" shouted Maddow and Olbermann’s staff;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Biden made a gaffe.
With a smooth smile delivery Obama’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; and he bade the game go on;
He toured the Arab nations, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Barrack still ignored it, and Hannity said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one speech from Emanuel and the crowd was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
They knew Obama wouldn't let that ball go by again.
Healthcare spills from Obama’s lip, Pelosi leers with hate;
Unemployment, Afghanistan, Resigned Czars seal his fate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
Now the air is shattered by the speed his polls fell so low.
Oh, somewhere in North Korea the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing in Iraq, Islamists hearts are light,
In Iran clerics are laughing, in Pakistan children shout;
There’s no joy in America - mighty Obama struck out.
********CASEY AT THE BAT*********
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly 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 springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "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 its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid 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 Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his 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 Casey'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 somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
I was disappointed with yet another decision by the Obama administration, at the end of the e-mail I wrote, “It’s a sad day in Mudville,” in a reference to the famous poem Casey at the Bat. Then before I sent the e-mail, I thought about that line. Then I thought about how so many people put an unrealistic amount of hope into Obama’s ability to single handedly change the government.
Then I realized that given the current state of the economy, the war in Afghanistan, Gitmo, the Cash-for-Clunkers missteps, and the 16 point fall in the polls that Obama was a lot like Casey. So, I took the liberty of changing some of the words to the famous poem, its written below. Enjoy. If you have forgotten the famous poem, scroll to the bottom and read the poem, it will help you with the rhyme and rhythm of my version.
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for America that day:
The election was close, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Edwards died in June, and Romney did the same,
A sickly 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 springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Obama could get a whack at that –
We'd put up even money, with Obama at the bat.
But John went after Bar-rack, as did also Hillary,
The former was a hero, the latter an enemy;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Obama getting to bat.
With Palin nominated, to the wonderment of all,
Mc-Cain, the much despis-ed, began his steady clumsy fall;
And when the dust had lifted, the men saw what had occurred,
There was Biden safe at second and Clinton hugging third.
Then from 5 million throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, and it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Barrack, mighty ‘bama, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Obama’s style as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Sharpton’s bearing and a smile on Jesse’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Obama at bat.
The whole world’s eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five billion tongues rejoiced when he rolled the sleeves of his shirt.
While the new majority started shooting from their hip,
Defiance gleamed in Boehner’s eye, a sneer curled Michelle’s lip.
And now Chrysler, G-M and A-I-G cruised through the air,
And Bar-rack stood a-watching ‘em in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Barrack. "Strike one," Rush Limbaugh 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 Rush Limbaugh!" shouted Maddow and Olbermann’s staff;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Biden made a gaffe.
With a smooth smile delivery Obama’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; and he bade the game go on;
He toured the Arab nations, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Barrack still ignored it, and Hannity said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one speech from Emanuel and the crowd was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
They knew Obama wouldn't let that ball go by again.
Healthcare spills from Obama’s lip, Pelosi leers with hate;
Unemployment, Afghanistan, Resigned Czars seal his fate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
Now the air is shattered by the speed his polls fell so low.
Oh, somewhere in North Korea the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing in Iraq, Islamists hearts are light,
In Iran clerics are laughing, in Pakistan children shout;
There’s no joy in America - mighty Obama struck out.
********CASEY AT THE BAT*********
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly 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 springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "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 its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid 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 Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his 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 Casey'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 somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
