An unfortunate visit from St. Nicholas...to one of Stan Kroenke's houses
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Horrigan: An unfortunate visit from St. Nicholas...to one of Stan Kroenke's houses : News
‘Twas the night before Christmas, at the house of Stan Kroenke,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a donkey;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
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Cashmere, of course. Nine hundred dollars a pair.
The children were grown, with their own revenue streams
From ranches and vineyards and NBA teams;
So mamma with her billions and I with my own,
Were catching some Zs, at home all alone,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I called out the gendarmes to see what was the matter.
I figured a well-armed security guard
Could handle a fat guy who’d invaded my yard.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below,
But horror of horrors, in front of my face,
Was a billion-buck stadium, in the wrong place.
The fat guy in charge was lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
The entire purpose of his Christmas Eve jaunt
Was to bring me a stadium that I didn’t want!
“Check it out,” he said, “see what I’ve delivered,
A brand new sports palace, down on the river!
The taxpayers are in for half of the price!
Now you don’t have to move. Isn’t that nice?”
“It’s got lots and lots of video boards
And thousands of seats for the fanatical hordes
Who’ll be watching your Rams in the sun and the rain
As they jump offsides and are held for no gain.
“Oh, Stan,” he said, crinkling his eyes,
“Just think of Rams football ‘neath God’s open skies,
Down on the riverfront. Who cares if it’s nippy?
Just check out the views of the brown Mississippi.”
“It’s nestled right close to the Musial span,
Named after the guy for whom you are Stan.
How can you not like it? It’s a gift mighty handsome.
We’re assuming voters don’t mind paying ransom.”
“I don’t want it,” I told the fat little dude.
“Sure, it’s OK and I don’t mean to be rude
But it’s in the wrong place. Real estate’s my vocation.
One thing you got wrong and that’s the location.
“California,” I told the guy in the suit,
“Is where I can double or triple my loot.
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.
They’re hungry for football played with some glitz. They won’t care all that much that the team is the pits.”
“You build them a stadium with luxury features
They won’t care about flags for illegal procedure.
Or fumbling or holding or coaches who’re hostile
If it’s shiny enough, they’ll pour through the turnstiles.”
“I don’t know,” said the elf. “It just doesn’t seem fair
That we offer a gift to a six-billionaire
And you won’t even talk to us, won’t even admit
That your team’s not too good. You just want to split.”
“We’re moguls,” I told him. “We’re tycoons and kings,
We’re captains and nabobs, owners of things.
We do what we please. We do what we deign.
We never apologize. We never explain.”
He spoke not a word, but shook his head sadly.
He emptied the stockings, as if he felt badly
And sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I yelled as he flew.
“You forgot something, pal. Your work isn’t through.
Get back here right now, you big tub of lard
And get your dumb stadium off of my yard!”
Horrigan: An unfortunate visit from St. Nicholas...to one of Stan Kroenke's houses : News
‘Twas the night before Christmas, at the house of Stan Kroenke,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a donkey;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Advertisement: Story Continues Below
Cashmere, of course. Nine hundred dollars a pair.
The children were grown, with their own revenue streams
From ranches and vineyards and NBA teams;
So mamma with her billions and I with my own,
Were catching some Zs, at home all alone,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I called out the gendarmes to see what was the matter.
I figured a well-armed security guard
Could handle a fat guy who’d invaded my yard.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below,
But horror of horrors, in front of my face,
Was a billion-buck stadium, in the wrong place.
The fat guy in charge was lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
The entire purpose of his Christmas Eve jaunt
Was to bring me a stadium that I didn’t want!
“Check it out,” he said, “see what I’ve delivered,
A brand new sports palace, down on the river!
The taxpayers are in for half of the price!
Now you don’t have to move. Isn’t that nice?”
“It’s got lots and lots of video boards
And thousands of seats for the fanatical hordes
Who’ll be watching your Rams in the sun and the rain
As they jump offsides and are held for no gain.
“Oh, Stan,” he said, crinkling his eyes,
“Just think of Rams football ‘neath God’s open skies,
Down on the riverfront. Who cares if it’s nippy?
Just check out the views of the brown Mississippi.”
“It’s nestled right close to the Musial span,
Named after the guy for whom you are Stan.
How can you not like it? It’s a gift mighty handsome.
We’re assuming voters don’t mind paying ransom.”
“I don’t want it,” I told the fat little dude.
“Sure, it’s OK and I don’t mean to be rude
But it’s in the wrong place. Real estate’s my vocation.
One thing you got wrong and that’s the location.
“California,” I told the guy in the suit,
“Is where I can double or triple my loot.
Advertisement: Story Continues Below
.
They’re hungry for football played with some glitz. They won’t care all that much that the team is the pits.”
“You build them a stadium with luxury features
They won’t care about flags for illegal procedure.
Or fumbling or holding or coaches who’re hostile
If it’s shiny enough, they’ll pour through the turnstiles.”
“I don’t know,” said the elf. “It just doesn’t seem fair
That we offer a gift to a six-billionaire
And you won’t even talk to us, won’t even admit
That your team’s not too good. You just want to split.”
“We’re moguls,” I told him. “We’re tycoons and kings,
We’re captains and nabobs, owners of things.
We do what we please. We do what we deign.
We never apologize. We never explain.”
He spoke not a word, but shook his head sadly.
He emptied the stockings, as if he felt badly
And sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I yelled as he flew.
“You forgot something, pal. Your work isn’t through.
Get back here right now, you big tub of lard
And get your dumb stadium off of my yard!”