The game looked really hopeful for our Indians that day.                                  

We led New York by four to two, with but one inning left to play.

We got Maris on a grounder, and Berra on the same.

Two down, none on, we settled back; we've no doubt won this game!


The Yankees were in agony, as we cheered and laughed and clapped.

It looked as if our losing streak had finally been snapped.

We only wished that Casey -- that stupid lazy lout

Could be the patsy that would make the final shameful out.


Oh how we hated Casey -- a blot upon the game

Every dog in Cleveland  barked and whined at mention of his name.

A braggart and a bully -- not really very nice

If we could ever do it -- we'd sure put him  on ice!


But up came Mize to bat, and Mantle was on deck.

Now the former was a has-been, and the latter was a wreck.

Though the game was in the bag, the Cleveland fans were hurt

to think that Casey wouldn't bat and get his just desert.


But Mize eked out a single, a most unlikely sight

And Mantle hit it softly, yet doubled it to right!

And when the dust had settled, and fickle fate had beckoned

There was Mize aperch on third base, and Mantle safe at second.


Then from every Cleveland throat, there rose a lusty cry

Bring up that fat fool Casey, and let him stand and die!

Throw the mighty fastball -- let him hear it whiz

Let him hit a pop up -- like the patsy that he is!


There was pride in Casey's visage as he strode onto the grass

There was scorn in his demeanor, as he stood and scratched his ass.

Ten thousand people booed him as he stepped into the box

Ten thousand more resounded when he bent to fix his socks.


Now Feller's fabled slider came spinning toward the mitt

And Casey watched it spinning -- and did not go for it.

The umpire jerked his arm like he was hauling down the sun

His cry rang out for all to hear -- "Strike One!"


Ten thousand Cleveland partisans raised such a mighty cheer

That pigeons in the roof decided to get out of here!

The cheers turned quickly into boos with scarcely a hitch

They screamed at Casey as he stood and took the second pitch.


It was Bob Feller's fastball; it came across the plate

According to the radar gun, it measured ninety-eight.

According to the umpire -- it came in straight and true.

The cry rang out again across the land -- strike two!


Every Cleveland fan then rose in loud derision.

To question Casey's salary, his record and his vision.

While Rapid Robert put some rosin on the ball

The Cleveland fans hooted to think of Casey's fall.


Oh the fury in Casey's visage as he spat tobacco juice

And heard the little children shouting vile abuse.

He knocked the dirt from off his spikes, reached down and eased his pants.

"Did you lose them?" cried a lady, from far up in the stands.


Now Feller stands majestic -- lone upon the hill!

He leans into the plate, and then the crowd goes still.

He goes into his windup, kicks high and lets it go

And the very air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.


He swung so hard his hair fell off -- he tumbled in disgrace

As Hegan held the ball up high, the crowd tore up the place.

With Casey prostrate in the dust among the screams and jeers

We threw wieners at him -- and other souvenirs.


Oh sometimes in this land of ours the sun shines clear and bright

Life is joyful sometimes -- all the world seems bright.

There is no joy in Cleveland, no joy so pure and sweet

As when the mighty Yankees fall, demolished at our feet.


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