O the gloomy fan is a mournful man, and he fills my soul with sorrow;
he watched the play with a frown today, and he'll scowl at the game
tomorrow. He ambles in when the games begin, a soul by the gods
forgotten; and he eyes the play in his morbid way, and he yells out
"punk!" and "rotten!" No player yet, be he colt or vet, won praise
from this critic gloomy; he'll sit and scowl like a poisoned owl, and
his eyes are red and rheumy; and his blood is thin and his heart is
tin, and his head is stuffed with cotton; and he merely sits, throwing
frequent fits, and he calls out "punk!" and "rotten!" He casts a pall
on the bleachers all, and he breaks the hearts of players; he gives the
dumps to his nibs the umps, who would spread him out in layers; he
queers the game and he chills the frame of the man on the bases
trottin', with his fish-like eyes and his mournful sighs, and his cries
of "punk!" and "rotten!"