With news of Hillary Clinton reaching the required delegate count to secure the Democratic presidential nomination, but Bernie Sanders persisting to stay in the race through the DNC, we revisit the classic poem Casey at the Bat.


Bernie at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Bernville team that day;

in terms of runs, the majority had not gone their way.

The New York game had been a bust, and Super Tuesday too;

those who had once felt the Bern were now feeling only blue.

Some Bernie fans lost hope and put their Facebook shares to rest,

after the Golden State did not prove them to be the best.

But some stood strong and said, “Be fair! Bernie still wants to play!

And America wants tuition we don’t have to pay!”

From the college towns, idealistic white people boasted,

“Your election math is wrong. Go and read what I posted!”

It echoed from coffee shop press to craft brewery vat,

for Bernie, mighty Bernie, was advancing to the bat.

The first two pitches came down the middle, sent with blistering speed.

Bernie hardly noticed them as he assailed corporate greed.

A fan jeered that the other side should probly’ go to jail,

but Bernie said, “Play ball! Stop talking about damned email!”

With a fierce sneer and his hair growing more mad-scientist wild,

To the ump he growls, “This game was made when I was just a child!”

The pitcher winds up, leans forward, and with great force she fires.

Bernie swings like he’ll be three hundred before he retires.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright;

Vampire Weekend is playing somewhere, somewhere hearts are light.

Somewhere progressive bros are laughing, somewhere socialists shout;

But there is no joy in Bernville — mighty Bernie has struck out.

But wait! Bernie has not moved from his spot. No, not at all!

The ump says it’s over, but Bernie shouts, “Throw the next ball!”

Mighty Bernie does not budge, still leaning over the plate.

“You are out of pitches,” says the ump. “Face it. It’s too late.”

From the stands come shouts of support and some demanding queries;

“Shouldn’t he win since his odds are better in the World Series?”

They call it a conspiracy, one designed by the rich;

they tear through the rulebook in hopes of finding one more pitch.

Now members of the other team politely ask him to leave,

hinting they’d play Trump with a Bernie patch upon their sleeve.

But Bernie says he still has plans to win that champions ring;

at an invisible pitch, mighty Bernie takes one more swing.

It just seems crazy to half the crowd; there seems to be no point.

“You just don’t get it,” says a Bernie fan rolling a fat joint.

“He’s going to be president. This is just the beginning.

It’s a media lie that we have gone past the ninth inning.”

Now the grass is brown and dry across the abandoned field,

but one wily old senator just refuses to yield.

Though the crowd has all gone to their homes and the hour has grown late,

one Vermont revolutionary still stands ready at the plate.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright;

yes, the band’s playing at Hillary’s camp on into the night.

Oh, Clinton will be president, after her final rout;

but Bernie, mighty Bernie, swings on — though he has struck out.

—alex pearson

Advertisement
Advertisement