The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudvillettes, it seems;
The score stood four to two against that best of softball teams;
And when Brenda ("Lefty") Cooney and "Babs" Barrows both flied out,
A sickly silence filled the air, and the fans began to pout.

A straggling few got up to go--'twas the ninth and two were down--
While the rest had little hope at all that the 'Ettes would Go To Town;
Still, they thought if only Casey's gal--Patricia--Patsy--Pat--
Could get a lick, they still might win with Casey at the bat.

But Myrna Flynn and Hedy Blake had to hit before Miss C.;
And the former was a sissy, and the latter just a she;
So again upon a Mudville throng grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed no chance whatever that Patricia'd get to bat.

But Myrna smacked a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Hedy--known as Flatfoot--fairly flattened out the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, there on third and second base
Perched a pair of Mudville cuties, each a-powdering her face.

Then from the howling mamas in the stand in back of first.
Went up a weird, unearthly scream, like a Tarzan crazed with thirst,
Like a million screeching monkey-fans, like a yowling giant cat:
For Casey, Patsy Casey, was advancing to the bat!

There was ease in Patsy's manner as she stepped up to the plate;
There were curves in Patsy's figure, and a bounce in Patsy's gait;
And when responding to the screams she lightly doffed her hat,
No Casey fan could doubt 'twas Mighty's daughter at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on her shorts, an orchidaceous hue;
Five thousand tongues commented on her blouse of beige-and-blue;
And while the ladies chattered "What a shape!" and "What a fit!"
Miss Casey gave her shorts a tug and smoothed her blouse a bit.

And now the underhanded pitch came hurtling through the air,
But Patsy, like her famous dad, just stood a-smiling there;
And when "Strike one!" the umpire yelled as past that softball sped,
"That ain't my style!" is what they say Patricia Casey said.

Again, as in the years a-gone, the crowd set up a roar;
Again, they shouted as they had so many years before,
"Kill him! kill the umpire!"; and as once did Patsy's Pop,
Miss Casey raised a staying hand, and mildly said, "Oh, stop!"

And smiling like a lady in a teethy toothpaste ad,
Patricia showed that howling mob she wasn't even mad;
She signaled to the pitcher, who again the ball let fly;
And again like Papa Casey's, Patsy's second strike went by.

Anew, the maddened thousands blamed the strike upon the ump;
A racketeer, they labeled him, a floogie, and a frump;
But once again the mob was stilled by Patsy's charming smile,
As certain every fan became she'd hit the next a mile.

And now they see her daub a bit of powder on her nose;
They watch her put fresh lipstick on--a shade called Fleur de Rose;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now she lets it go;
And now the air is shattered by another Casey's blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the moon is shining bright;
And somewhere there are softball honeys winning games tonight.
And somewhere there are softball fans who scream and yell and shout;
But there's still no joy in Mudville--Casey's daughter has struck out.