In Hampton's field the daises grow,

Where once a pitcher's arm did throw,

That mark the place where memories lie,

The white balls through the air did fly,

Reached out for by gloved hands below.

We are the team; so long ago,

We played and ran both to and fro,

Won and lost and said goodbye

One day the thunderstorm came by,

To wash o'er Hampton's field.

If you, dear visitor would go

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To see the place we held dear - oh!

And reminisce of far-gone day,

While we have all been far away,

Grown older and apart.

In Hampton's fields the dozers came,

With grim intent one and the same,

The toneless roars with oily clouds,

Drowned out the songbirds with their loud,

To wipe the earth so barren.

And now stands just a square of white,

A tiny plaque that seems so trite,

Scarce half a care was given about,

The laughter and the joyful shouts,

How little can a passer-by learn; for even if they try -

For now there are so few to tell,

And less who do remember well.