From The Sun, November 16, 1913.

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.