Another parody, this one an adaptation of 'Casey At The Bat' chronicles my third (and most successful) attempt to get into medical school.
B. Funk at the Bat
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for Mr. Funk that day;
The score stood eight to none against with three schools left to play;
When Jefferson sent their letter, and Georgetown did the same;
A sickly silence fell upon the player of the game.
A part of him wanted to go, in deep despair. The rest;
clung to the hope which ‘springs eternal in the breast;’
He thought, “If I knew a surgeon or political fat cat;
I’d put up even money that they wouldn’t sneer at that!”
McCluggage stood before him, for Eubanks was out of state;
And the former was an asshole, and the latter not so great;
So, upon that MPH a grim melancholy fell;
For there seemed a better chance of snowballs freezing down in hell.
But Bret renewed his courage, to the wonderment of all;
To McCluggage, much despised, he strode boldly down the hall;
And when the dust had lifted and men could see again;
McCluggage talked to B. Funk as if they both were friends.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty call;
It rumbled through the building, it rattled down the hall;
And out into New Orleans, and through the streets so vast,
For B. Funk, mighty B. Funk, was to have his chance at last.
There was ease in B. Funk’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in B. Funk’s bearing and a smile on his face,
And, responding to McCluggage, he sat upon the couch,
His eyes were full of vigor, and his back it had no slouch.
Two evil eyes were on him as he sat with folded hands;
A vile smirk bored through him as he calmly made his stand,
Then, while McCluggage chuckled and made an idle quip,
Defiance gleamed in B. Funk’s eyes, a sneer curled B. Funk’s lip.
And now mean, unyielding questions came hurtling through the air;
And B. Funk answered calmly with an unassuming air,
McCluggage asked where ‘peoply things’ upon Funk’s papers hid,
“That ain’t my style,” said B. Funk. “Strike one,” McCluggage said.
From his seat upon the sofa, B. Funk hid a muffled roar;
And he told McCluggage of the many burdens he had bore,
And listed groups and charities from far across this land,
And it’s likely they’d have taken him, til McCluggage played his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity, McCluggage shook his head;
He leaned forward in his high-backed chair, smirked, and then he said,
“Why then are these average grades, if what you say is true ?”
As B. Funk looked upon his grades, McCluggage said, “Strike two!”
“Those,” said Bret defensively, “are far from where it’s at;
“My post-grad grades are excellent, and what of my MCAT?”
McCluggage laughed most evilly, his eyes were full of hate,
“High MCAT scores and so-so grades do not a doctor make!”
McCluggage sneered and glared at him, he raises up his pen;
“How many other schools applied?” to which Funk must say ten
“How many have accepted you?” And B. Funk answers none,
McCluggage shrugs his shoulders. “See, we’re not the only one.”
Oh! Elsewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and elsewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Nawlins – mighty B. Funk has struck out.
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