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Walter O'Malley, baseball lord,
The Owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers,
Would never be mistaken for
A Mister Rogers.
A lawyer, too (he'd passed the bar),
His tastes were not exactly picky.
He loved beef stew, a fat cigar;
He hated Rickey.
He liked fruit trees and fertile ground,
An orchard ripe with apples dropping.
He often heard the zen-like sound
Of one Branch lopping.
A pun, a pie, a good pratfall--
He thought these things were very funny;
But what amused him most of all
Was just plain money.
Scully, Red, "two peas in a pipe":
Young Vin was good; old Red was deeper.
O'Malley canned old Red like tripe.
Scully was cheaper.
Surrounded by his money men,
He balanced credits with his debits.
He added up his assets, then
Subtracted Ebbets.
Old Ebbets Field was just too small.
Despite the loads of cash it took in,
O'Malley heard the siren's call
And forsook Brooklyn.
Walter O'Malley, baseball lord,
In LA LA Land the sun, the father--
To save the Bums he'd been implored:
He didn't bother.
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