CASEY AT THE WAFT
He has arms like ancient oak trees.
He has legs like solid rocks.
Yet around him glide the shadows
Of the ominous vulture flocks.
High he holds his Wafting iron;
Down he swings with practiced power.
"I," he calls, "will topple 60,
Topple 60 in an hour."
But the fragile woombat weakens,
Dizzy from such wafted speed,
Starts to slumber in the outfield
Making Casey mad indeed.
Thinking not but rushing only
Mighty Casey wafts him hard
Out upon the bare brown infield
To the stomper, battle scarred.
In some town the birds are singing,
Flowers bloom and people shout,
But in Mudville no one's happy.
Mighty Casey wafted out.
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