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.