Myrtilla, ere the season starts,
Or e'er the primal ball be thrown
If you would win this callous heart's
Affection for your very own,
This counsel, blooming, fresh and frondent-
Accept it from your correspondent.
Back in the days of Old Cap Anse,
'Twas reckoned cute to spoof a dame,
And famed was her incognitance
About the so-called national game;
And comment feminine was silly.
That was before your day, Myrtilly.
For, now, Myrtilly, I admit
Your knowledge far transcends mine own;
You know an error from a hit-
A quaver from a semitone;
You never say, "How small the bat is!"
You never have to ask who that is.
Nay, Myrt, too well you like the game;
You are too true a devotee;
My Blue-Print is the kind of dame
Whose love is less for ball than me;
And so, my Myrt, that is the reason
I think I'll go alone this season.