A Split Century

Half a C, half a C, Half a C, sundered, Cut from the other half, Half a big hundred. Forward the Cub Brigade! “Charge at the umps!” they said, But Zim in silence stood. O you big hundred!

Past the Great Zim the pill Whistled. “Strike three,” said Bill, And the Great Heine knew William had blundered; His not to make reply, His not to query why, ’Though ’twas outside and high. Silence is golden, Zim. O you big hundred!

Players to right of him, Players to left of him, Players in front of him Hollered and thundered, Bellowing like a calf At the whole umpire staff, But Heine’s jaws are locked, Earning the other half Of the big hundred.