My son had made the team; he played
Left end and did it splendidly—
At least he did it well till they’d
Knocked out his teeth and wrenched his knee;
I sat and watched when he was downed
By seven heavy buccaneers
Who jammed his visage in the ground
Thereby evoking hearty cheers.
His comrades raised him from the mud
And quickly bore him out of sight;
His face was all besmeared with blood,
The people shouted with delight.
It mattered not to them if he
Had finished his career on earth;
Mishaps were what they wished to see,
For thus they got their money’s worth.
He’s now attended by a nurse
And after this he will be lame;
It might, however, have been worse;
I won six dollars on the game;
Therefore I’ll cling to hope, and chuck
The grief with which I have been filled,
For next time it may be my luck
To see some other maimed or killed.