It was just in Bill Hobson’s nature,
before he was even a runt,
why, before he even learned to walk,
he’d taught himself to bunt.
He showed little interest in grade school.
His teachers found him as a student wanting.
He’d do no homework, but every day in his backyard,
for six hours after school, he’d diligently practice bunting.
He made the freshman baseball team,
but he gave his coaches a fit,
for Bill insisted on bunting – no matter what the sign –
as a way to get a hit. (He never did.)
Tossed off the team for insubordination, next fall, he tried out for football.
The coach showed him how to punt it,
but instead of catching and kicking the ball,
Bill Hobson tried to bunt it. (It will come as no surprise that he did not not make team.)
Bill got a job as a night watchman.
After he’d made the rounds and checked all the locks,
he would spend the rest of the night
practicing bunting out on the loading docks.
Late one evening, a gambler spied Bill,
said to his partner, “Look at that schmuck.”
His partner said “He doesn’t look like a fool to me,
He looks like a stroke of good luck!”
And so the boxer Bill “the Bunter” Hobson was born.
Of his prowess at fisticuffs the gamblers would sing
as they’d travel from town to town, get Bill into a boxing match,
then bet the house of the other guy in the ring.
His head it was battered.
His jaw it was shattered.
Across his tattered baseball jersey,
his blood it was splattered.
His eyes black and bruised,
but he never felt used,
for if one’s calling is bunting,
one’s life can’t really be choosed.
Then the Great War in Europe broke out (version II).
Bill was drafted and sent to the front.
It was at the Battle of the Bulge
that Bill made his most famous bunt.
A German soldier tossed a grenade at his platoon’s foxhole
It hung in the air, everyone thought in that instant, “My God! We’re done for and that’s that”
but Bill saw the grenade as a baseball,
and bunted it with his bat.
And even though Bill “The Bunter” Hobson was a failure as a student,
could not even stay on the baseball team,
never stood a chance at making the football team,
never became a doctor or a lawyer,
and although his lack of prowess with women was up until this point
not heretofore mentioned, one can only imagine,
and his total number of wins as a professional boxer amounted to zero (0-533 to be exact),
when it came time for his final out,
Bill Hobson died a hero!
So it doesn’t matter if you reach first base,
it doesn’t matter how many runs you score,
in the town square of Rosemont, Ohio, is a statue
erected in honor of “Bill ‘The Bunter’ Hobson – a Hero of the Second World War”
All posts in category I Like Ogden Nash
The Ballad of Bill “The Bunter” Hobson (A Spectacularly Undistinguished Practitioner of the Art of Professional Fisticuffs, Who Nevertheless is Remembered as a War Hero)
It was just in Bill Hobson’s nature,
Posted by Tom Busillo on April 14, 2012
The children of the shoemaker have no shoes?
Does that mean the children of the blues guitarist don’t have any blues?
The children of the fruit peddler don’t have any fruit?
The children of the boot maker don’t have a single boot?
The children of the banker, their pockets have no money?
The children of the beekeeper, they’ve never tasted honey?
The children of the tailor have never worn a suit?
The children of the beauty queen have never heard of cute?
The children of the school teacher, they really have no class?
The children of the mule breeder, they really have no ass?
The children of the barber they all have the longest hair?
The children of the carney never once been to the fair?
The stonemason’s children, they can’t find two stones?
The archaeologist’s children – do they really have no bones?
The children of the botanist, always asking “what’s a leaf?”
The children of the butcher, always asking “what is beef?”
The children of the tanner, they don’t know where’s to hide?
The children of Colonel Sanders never tasted chicken fried?
The children of the astronomer think that the moon’s a star?
The used car salesman’s children have never ridden in a car?
The saxophonist’s children can’t tell a woodwind from a horn?
The children of the midwife are still waiting to be born?
The tug captain’s children can’t tell a train from a boat?
The children of the Navy Seal were never taught to float?
The children of the silk trader never touched a piece of silk?
The children of the wet nurse have never tasted milk?
The housecleaner’s children all live covered in soot?
The children of the podiatrist are each missing a foot?
The travel agent’s children, they have nowhere to go?
The disc jockeys children, they have no radio?
The children of the carpenter live in a home without a door?
The linoleum layer’s children walk in kitchens with no floor?
The children of the cheese maker are most in need of cheese?
The children of the etiquette columnist never once say “please?”
The electrician’s children are forced to read by fire?
The plumber’s children like to clog the drain with fishing wire?
The children of the rug maker have never walked on rugs?
The children of the pharmacist have never taken drugs?
The children of the odor tester have never smelled a scent?
The children of the penny-maker have never held a cent?
Posted by Tom Busillo on August 14, 2011
Have you met Gordie?
He flies drones from his desk,
He gives a good sortie,
Does it without strings,
Does it without wire,
Can blast a camel through a needle,
Can thread a missile through a tire.
When he dresses in the morning,
Round his neck he puts a charm,
Brought back by Special Forces,
It’s a little baby’s arm.
It’s not at all gruesome –
It’s been mummified.
You’ll make an ideal twosome
If you both stay rummified.
Posted by Tom Busillo on June 20, 2011