AP wire-- Lawrence Mass Modernists Get Pounded The Outlook wasnt brilliant for the Modernists that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. And then when Robinson died at first, and Lindsay 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 Pound could get but a whack at that - Wed put up even money, now, with Ezra at the bat. But Eliot preceded Ezra, as did also Robby Frost And the former was a Possum, and the latter nearly tossed So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Ezra s getting to the bat. But Thomas let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Frost, 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 T.S. safe at second and Ricks 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 Pound the mighty Ezra, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Ezras manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in every Canto and a Rock Drill grimace on Uncle Ezs face And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt twas E,P. 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 Ezras eye, a sneer curled Ezs lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And E.P. stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped- Ez sez, Andante!. 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 Mark Schorr. Kill him! Kill the umpire! shouted someone on the stand; And its likely theyd a-killed him had not Ezra pounded sand. With a smile of Selwyn Mauberly Uncle Ezras visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He grimaced at the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Ezra paraphrased it, and the umpire said, Strike two. Traitor! cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered Fraud; But one scornful look from Ezra and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Ez Sez that ball wouldnt go by again. The sneer is gone from Ezras lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He dings Damn Goddam hard his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds summer in his hand, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Ezras blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land a river merchants huband is thinking of his wife this day and somewhere someone may be reading A Lento Spume But there is no joy in Modernville - mighty Ezra has struck out.
Posted on: Wed, 06 Aug 2014 00:39:41 +0000
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