O Edwin! My Edwin!

O Edwin! my Edwin! our second game is done;
The team has weather'd every rack, the game we fought is won;
October's near, the cheers I hear, the people all exulting,
With Dunner's bomb and Griffey's blast, the standings we go vaulting.
But O heart! heart! heart!
Leave out not Richie's day,
His ball, too, sailed o'er the fence,
He should always play.

O Edwin! my Edwin! tomorrow is the last;
Rise up-for you the pennant's flung-for you the bugle blasts;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the stands a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their happy faces turning;
O Edwin! dear slugger!
This bat I push beneath you;
It is some dream that on the field,
You're standing with a trophy.

Of course, again, apologies, this time to Walt Whitman and dear old Abe Lincoln. (and yes, that's a Tomahawk in his hands.)