The Strange Death Of John Doe

Sometimes, hungover, 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
international bridge but he didn’t get too far
Big Ed don’t let them weigh you down
Big Ed don’t let us weigh you down
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
For a week no one found a clue of him
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