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The Oswalt: A Poem

Tennyson!

The Oswalt

He grasps the ball with crooked hand;
Toeing the rubber in Pattison's lands,
Ringed with the emerald field, he stands.

A wrinkled brow the Oswalt furls;
Sheen of sweat collects like pearls,
The thunderbolt, the ball, he hurls.