The prospects weren't rosy for the Brooklyn Dodgers' team;
Their players had been stolen in an avaricious scheme.
The laid-back fans they played for now seemed foggy in the head.
In fact, some experts theorized that most of them were dead.
The western turf was concrete, and the games would often halt.
Chavez Ravine was never still; it squatted on a fault.
Against the game of baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers' fan
This crime had been committed by that foul O'Malley man.
One Christmas Eve an ancient Bum knelt down before his tree
And said, "Now get this, Santa, I'm not asking this for me
But for all the fans in Brooklyn in whose hearts does fiercely burn
An aching yearning for one thing: to see the Bums return."
This plea recalled to Mr. Claus a very simple truth:
He had rooted for the Dodgers in the Brooklyn of his youth.
That said, he reached into his sack to galvanize the fates
And found just what was needed, a philanthropist named Gates.
Bill razed EF Apartments but gave tenants there some hope
With monetary recompense and homes in plush Park Slope.
With Tammany and Boro Hall bold William wheeled and dealed.
The fruits of all this haggling? A brand new Ebbets Field
With grass so green and technicolor ads on every wall
And unobstructed views, but not a team to play baseball.
"The Park's a nest," said Guru Gates; "a flock will sometimes roam.
When spring arrives in Ebbets Field, the Robins will fly home."
Oh somewhere in the blight of Bronx a stadium rots away.
And somewhere up in noisy Queens the Mets abuse old Shea.
And somewhere in Manhattan the Jets a park debate.
But there is now joy in Brooklyn as for the Bums we wait.
P.S. Do not go batty if they happen to be late.