OCR Text |
Show J By Gene Fowler. We must cultivate the diamond, With corn and wheat for yield. Instead of curves, the box reserves Will till the baseball field. The war has raised the prices Until we need each base For foodstuff, grains and farmer brains To take the ball club's place. There's a plow there near the pitcher pitch-er A rake lies by first base. Tho hurler sows, but never throws, To feed ti nation's face. Out on the golf grounds, brother, The bogey man sure blinks. Instead of driving, stars aro striving To raise crops on the links. Where Vardon used the putter, They're raising onions now. The greens so grassy see no brassie But feel the deadly plow. The football llmo lines fade, and The mentor's class is hid. The old coach sends his halves and ends To raise spuds on the grid! The rings that held the boxers Are filled with fertile soil. The pugilists now use their fists In honest farmer toil. No horses greet the dockers In early hours of morn. The race tracks hold their weight In gold And house the festive corn. The stadium at Harvard Is waving with the crops. And bowling alleys will bloom like valleys, val-leys, Unless this warfare stops. |