O Gordon! my Gordon! our fearful game is done,
The team has weather’d its comeback, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the stadium all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady gaze, the fielder grim and daring;
But O Gordon! Gordon! Gordon!
O the twitching groin of pain
Where on the field my Gordon lies,
Fallen still and strained.
O Gordon! my Gordon! rise up and hear the cheers;
Rise up – for you the flag is flung – for you the organ plays,
For you glove’d hats and All-Star votes - for you the crowds adoring,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Gordon! dear Gordon!
This pull within your loin!
It is some dream that on the field,
You’ve fallen to your groin.
My Gordon does not answer, his glove is out of play,
My fielder does not stand his ground, he rides the cart away,
The team is anchor’d safe and sound, its innings closed and done,
From fearfull loss the Dyson hoss comes in with comeback won;
Exult O fans, and ring cowbells!
But I with mournful tread
Walk the field my Gordon lies,
Fallen pulled instead.
(just in case you slept through American history AND literature: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174742)