Ballade Of A Substitute

I've been here nearly a season now, Watching the regulars, day after day; I wish some wizard would tell me how To break right into the game and stay. It isn't as if I were some thick jay, Like a lot of those clumsy "Class B" flivvers, But I'm glued to the bench so hard that, say-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers.

McGill is a terrible lobbygow, But he's drawing a regular shortstop's pay; He romps around like a crippled cow And shows the speed of a two-ton dray. Night after night I kneel and pray For a chance to work with the real high livers, But I guess I'll sub till my hair turns gray-- The seat of my pants is full of slivers.

Clancy ought to be steering a plow Back on the farm near old Green Bay; He's playing third, with his slanting brow; And Dugan ought to be pitching hay. The bulls they've made since the first of May Would give a McGraw one million shivers, But it's "stay on the bench!" for Kid O'Shay, The seat of my pants is full of slivers.