by James Finn Garner
Have the Twins sold their soul to the devil?
Have they penned a new contract in blood?
Has their lust for a title bereft them
Of a compass to tell bad from good?
What else can explain their performance?
Half the team’s on the disabled list,
while rooks amble up from the minors
Like Joe Jackson in a cornfield mist.
Thome’s swing has shrugged off a decade,
And Pavano now hurls like an ace.
Something’s hinky, you know, with these Twinkies.
Have the precepts of God been replaced?
Yet one sable evening in Cleveland
Came the devil’s own agent, Fausto.
For their pride he pulled ’em back to the pit.
Ol’ Nick will be paid what he’s owed.
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