Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/88

66 God, have mercy on me!” Mr. Self stops to think; But the ball cuts the plate— He’s aware that he slumped, Grasps the bat,—but too late. What you say, Mr. Ump? Can it be? Yes, ’tis done! “Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!” Mr. Self, Strike One! Mr. Self’s face is grim. ’Tis the critical test— For his heart, conscience-sick, Heaves stern at his breast. The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game; If in life or in death, If in falsehood or shame. Mr. Self, strike the ball— There’s a Tramp at your Gate! Mr. Self still amazed— And the ball cuts the plate. Mr. Self murmured not; The decision he knew, “Well, you’ve done that before.” Sighed the Ump. Strike Two! There’s the Beggar and Gate— But his silver and gold, Is amix with his blood; A part of his soul. The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do, With His eye on a line,