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"Casey At
The Dice"
MAD Special Number Eight |
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"Casey At The Byte"
Oct 1985 No. 258 |
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No. 58 Oct '60 |
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No. 124 Jan '69 |
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"If Thayer's "Casey At The Bat" were written by Edgar
Allen Poe" Mar 1969 |
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Mad Magazine "Casey At The Bat"
Issues Featuring "Cool" Casey At The Bat 1960 |
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1953 MAD Magazine
"Casey At The Bat" |
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Item Details |
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CIRCA
- 1953-1985
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PUBLISHER
- EC Comics
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SIZE
- 8" x 11"
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FORMAT
- Magazine
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"Casey at the Bat" is a poem written
in 1888 by Ernest Thayer. A dramatic
narrative about a baseball game. The
poem became popular on the vaudeville
circuit, and has become one of the
best-known poems in American
literature. In 1953, "Casey at the Bat"
was published in the Aug/Sept issue of "Tales Calculated To
Drive You MAD, "No 6, with artwork illustrated
by Jack Davis.
The
Oct. 1960, issue of MAD Magazine, No.
58, featured the "hip" version of the
poem entitled "'Cool'
Casey At The Bat" (words below)
illustrated by artist Don Martin. The Jan. 1969
issue of MAD
Magazine, No. 124 "Casey At The Dice" (With
apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer).
Artist Jack Davis, writer Frank Jacobs.
(reprinted in MAD Special Number Eight,
1972) March 1969 Mad Magazine N0. 125.
"If Thayer's "Casey At The Bat" were
written by Edgar Allen Poe" Artist
George Woodbridge Writer Frank Jacobs.
The
Mar 1974 issue of Mad Magazine, N0.
165, featured parodies of famous poems
which included "Casey
At The Contract Talks." Oct 1985
MAD Magazine No. 258 "Casey At The
Byter" (With apologies to Ernest
Lawrence Thayer) Artist Jack Davis,
writer Frank Jacobs.
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MAD Magazine "Casey At
The Bat" Issues |
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| No. 6 Aug/Sept '53 |
No. 58 Oct '60 |
No. 124 Jan '69 |
No. 165 March '74 |
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Mar 1974 issue of Mad Magazine, N0. 165 |
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"Cool" Casey At The Bat
Poem Published In Mad
Magazine No. 58 Oct. 1960
In 1888, some
"square" named Ernest Lawrence Thayer wrote a poem
which was destined for wide acclaim, entitled "Casey at
the Bat." But like all poems of that period, it was
written in the language of that period (which figures!)
To bring it up to date, MAD presents a "hip" version of
the poem which is destined for obscurity, entitled;
"Cool" Casey At The Bat" |
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The action wasn't groovy for the Endsville nine that
day;
The beat was 4 to 2 with just one chorus more to sway.
And when old Cooney conked at first, and Burrows also
sacked,
A nowhere rumble bugged up all the cats who dug the
act.
But Flynn swung before Casey, and also Cornball Blake,
And the stud didn't make it, and the other couldn't
fake;
So the cats and all their chicks were dragged and in a
blues grove,
For it was a sucker's long-shot that old Casey'd make
his move.
A hassled group all hung up and started in to split;
The other cats there played it cool and stayed to check
the bit:
They figured if old Casey could, get in one more lick-
We'd put a lot of bread down, Man, on Casey and his
stick!
But Flynn blew one cool single, and the hipsters did a
flip,
And Blake, who was a loser, gave the old ball quite a
trip;
And When the tempo let up, like a chorus played by
Bird,
There was Cornball stashed at second and Flynn holed up
at third.
Then from five thousand stomping cats there came a
crazy sound;
It rocked all through the scene, Man - it really rolled
around;
It went right to the top, Dad, and it charged on down
below,
For Casey, swinging Casey - He was comin' on to blow!
There was style in Casey's shuffle as he came on with
his stick;
There was jive in Casey's strutting; he was on a happy
kick.
And when, to clue in all the cats, he doffed his lid
real big,
The Square Johns in the group were hip: t'was Casey on
the gig.
Ten thousand peppers piped him as he rubbed fuzz on his
palms;
Five thousand choppers grooved it when he smeared some
on his arms.
Then while the shook-up pitcher twirled the ball
snagged in his clutch,
A hip look lit up Casey, this cat was just too much!
And now the crazy mixed-up ball went flying out through
space.
But Casey, he just eyed it with a cool look on his
face.
Right at that charged-up sideman, the old ball really
sailed-
"That's too far out," sang Casey. "Like, Strike One!"
the umpire wailed.
From the pads stacked high with hipsters there was
heard a frantic roar,
Like the beating of the bongos from a frenzied Be-Bop
score,
"Knife him! knife that ump, Man!" Wailed some weirdo
left-field clown;
And they would have the cat up, but cool Casey put them
down.
With a real gone beatnick grin on him, old Casey cooked
with gas;
He fanned down all that ribble, and he sang, "On with
this jazz!"
He Set the pitcher straight, and once again the old
ball flew;
But Casey wouldn't buy it and the ump howled, "Like
Strike Two!"
"He's sick!" wailed all the hipsters, and Squares, Too,
sang out "Sick!"
But a nod from Daddy Casey, and those cats got off that
kick.
They dug the way he sizzled, like his gaskets were of
wax;
They were hip that Casey wouldn't let the ball get by
his ax.
The cool look's gone from Casey's chops, his eyes are
all popped up;
He stomps his big ax on the plate, he really is hopped
up.
And now the pitcher cops the ball, and now it comes on
fast,
And now the joint is jumpin' with the sound of Casey's
blast.
Man, somewhere in this far-out scene the sun is packing
heat;
The group is blowing somewhere, and somewhere guts are
beat.
And somewhere big cats break up, and small cats raise
the roof;
But there is no joy in Endsville -- Swinging Casey made
a goof.
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