As the snow flies
On a cold Minneapolis mornin’,
A rich little baby child is born: J.P. Getty,
His eyes on the prize.
He would later be known for his greed
When he’d learned quickly how to succeed,
J.P. Getty.

Family business raped the land
To make that gasoline brand,
And that name is still used in some countries today.
Stations rebranded BP
In some vicinities—
J.P’s name goes away
In oil that’s burned.

In the mountains of Santa Monica there rose
A redoubt where the art-lover goes:
It’s the Getty;
There oils can be learned.

That stone outcropping is quite a sight;
The Trust burns with a zeal
To spurn J.P.’s fist tight,
Thus the Getty.

It is worth a visitation. . .
Can’t see all in a day.
You will be stunned by the art;
The trust fund what gave it the start.

Under sun skies
You look out across the grounds’ great expanse
To the Pacific, many a mountain manse
From the Getty.

Within feast your eyes
On the works of art J.P was scorin’
In life—they needed a place for storin’. . .
In the Getty.