Mordecai Brown Poem by William James Lampton

Gloom gathers above us,
There's murk in the air,
There's no one to shove us
Along to get where
The crown of the victor
Will rest on this town,
For the Giants see nothing
But Mordecai Brown,
Mordecai, Moedecai
Three-fingered Brown.

Fans wail on the bleechers,
Fans weep in the stands,
Fans cry with the screechers,
For any way, every way,
Far up and down.
There's nothing that greets them
But Mordecai, Mordecai
Three-fingered Brown

Baseball is no longer
The game of a club
Which had it been stronger,
Might wallop the dub
That hails from the windy
And comes to this town
To razzle the Giants
With Mordecai Brown.
Mordecai, Mordecai,
Threee-Fingered Brown.

The murky clouds thicken,
The end cometh on
When nothing can quicken
The hope that is gone;
Manhatten is busted,
The pennant is down,
And the Giants are walloped
By Mordecai Brown.
Mordecai, Mordecai,
Three-fingered Brown.