A few months after Bernice and I were married, Mara and Ronnie Blomberg (A Yankee 
and the first DH in baseball history) moved to the apartment next door. We became 
friends and had many great, memorable, fun times together. Then Ronnie was traded 
to Chicago and I wrote this in the style of Walt Whitman's, Oh Captain, My Captain 
because I really was so sad to see him go. I read it like a Mafia Godfather at a 
farewell dinner party they gave. Running with Ronnie, who was a great sprinter, 
showed me that I didn't even have the right to dream of making the Olympics. 

Oh Blombergs, My Blombergs

Oh Ronnie, my Ronnie, You leave us much too soon
For once you're not all ripped apart, you clumsy big baboon
And you are taking Mara too, her friendship's what we prize
Now if you stick around we'll dream up bigger lies

But oh cash, cash, cash
Stored deep in vaults below
Where soon you'll learn to spend your time
Counting all your dough

Oh Ronnie, my Ronnie, Oh how you hit those balls
When you can keep your shoulder good And not collide with walls
These last two years have brought some fun, To Mara you owe thanks
She helped to make your handsome son, while all you shot were blanks

The cash will fill a dozen banks
And one more just for show
Yet with it all you'll need four years
Just to count your dough

Oh Ronnie, Oh Mara, we hate to see you go
And Adam too, yes its true, we've come to love you so
At home we'll shed some quiet tears, Your leaving us the cause
Soon you'll be on your way, may all the world be yours

Each bank we pass will bring to mind
You've gone to Chicago
So even if the place pans out
You still can count your dough.

December 5, 1977