When old Rocky Nelson shuffles up to the plate
The outfield shifts round and the fans all wait.
He takes up his stance which ignores every law,
Has a last slow suck of the quid of his jaw,
And waits while the pitcher makes up his mind
What new deception his arm can unwind.
Then the ball comes in and the sound of wood
That’s heard by the ear does the loyal heart good,
And the ball rises up like a hunted thing
Pursued by an angry bumble-bee’s sting,
And the outfielders run but it’s no use at all-
Another one over the right field wall.
And as Rocky trots slowly around the bases
Happiness lights up twelve thousand faces.