The Lay Of The New York Fan
Yes, the baseball season's over and the geese are flying South;
Giants count their winnings gaily, Yanks are frothing at the mouth.
Glancing o'er the season's records, looking at the layout now,
Nothing seems to bring deep furrows to my pale and thoughtful brow.
True, we didn't win the pennant as we did in days of yore
For the Yankees couldn't stop 'em and the Giants couldn't score,
But the New York fans must chuckle (you can get this at a glance)
When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
Oh, the Cubs of other seasons, how they made us writhe and curse!
How they made us leave the ball yard moving slowly, a la hearse.
Oh you Sheckard, oh you Schulte, oh you great Three Fingered Brown,
Oh you little shortstop Tinker, idol of Chicago town!
We have followed all your doings, we have seen you going back,
And to-night we're burning incense at the shrine of Connie Mack.
From the Battery to Harlem, rooters do a noisy dance
When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
Where Lake Michigan is seething as the seasons hasten on,
Near the home of beef and bustle, near the home of Bathhouse John,
Gloom has settled, fans feel nettled, nerves are right on edge like
knives,
Fathers spank their little children, husbands beat their trusting wives.
But the rooters of Manhattan have no tales of woe to tell
As they read their Sunday papers in the homes they love so well.
Yes, they simply have to chuckle (you can get this at a glance)
When they think of the Athletics and of Peerless Leader Chance.
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The Old Rooter
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The $11000 Beauty
