Republished in BASEBALL, an Illustrated History
by Geoffrey C. Ward and Ken Burns
Mother, may I slug the umpire
May I slug him right away
So he cannot be here, Mother
When the clubs begin to play?
Let me clasp his throat, dear mother
In a dear, delightful grip
With one hand, and with the other
Bat him several in the lip.
Let me climb his frame, dear mother,
While the happy people shout;
I'll not kill him, dearest mother
I will only knock him out.
Let me mop the ground up, Mother,
With this person, dearest do;
If the ground can stand it, Mother
I don't see why you can't, too.
Mother may I slug the umpire,
Slug him right between the eyes?
If you let me do it, Mother
You shall have the champion prize.