 Sometimes, hung over, he might lose a pop fly in the glare of the Washington sun
And, yes, he swung at bad pitches, and let the Irish in him sharpen up and boozy-bloat his tongue
Nights on the road, he led a bachelor's life, with the bright, short blaze of a shooting star
But he soaked some homers, yeah, four in one game, when the ball was dead and the fences far
Big Ed, don't let them weigh you down
Big Ed, don't let us weigh you down
In July 1903, he was hitting .333, for him that was a little bit under par
On the 2nd, he jumped the team and jumped a train from Detroit to New York, went straight for the dining car
He was boozing it up good, they say, making trouble, cursing, shouting, Delahanting in the bar
At Fort Erie, Ontario, he was bumped from the train, wandered out on the bridge, but he didn't get too far
The night watchman said he'd seen a man, ended up wearing his bowler hat
He heard a splash, but he didn't see him fall
What good's it do to question death when it makes a bad call?
But I don't think he killed himself
I think some strange notion drew him to Niagara Falls
Across the curve of day and night
Like the perfect arch of a high fly ball
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