Dinner With The Babe

I'd serve a lot of hot dogs,
buns and beans and beer.
There's never too much food around
when Mr. Ruth is here.

He'd come fresh from the ballpark,
in unifrom and cleats.
We'd talk about his batting stance,
and broads and booze and eats.

I'd say, "You're such a hero,"
he'd say, "I'm just a man."
And as he'd shovel down the beans
I'd fetch another can.

He'd throw back a mighty mouthful,
then a hefty swig of brew.
He would hold his fork just like a bat
and take a swing or two.

"What's it like to be a legend?"
I would ask and watch him smile -
"Oh it's the next best thing to sex
to hit a ball a country mile."

Now I've dined with rich and famous,
and I've broken bread with kings.
Had sloppy joes with Elvis,
and grits and onion rings.

But if you want my real opinion,
just call me Honest Abe.
For hearty chow and chatter,
I'll take dinner with The Babe.