First Pitch: 7:05 PM
TV: Twins.TV
Radio: TIBN, WCCO 830, The Wolf 102.9 FM, Audacy
Know Yo’ Foe: Lone Star Ball
The season is over — was that a rum year, Blundering and chundering with plenty to jeer. They
sold half the guys which we can’t overcome, Then pulled off the market and left us all numb, No room to be jolly ’cause ownership blows; You want to kick buttocks? Get started with Joe’s. Each season, we’ve hopes up, then trouble begins; If you want to see crazy, then look at the Twins.
It started in spring with a thirteen-game streak
That left us excited for week after week.
The pen was amazing, a wonderful gift,
They would fire it past hitters and all of them whiffed.
Our bats inconsistent but sometimes came clutch
With timely walk-offs that thrilled all the audience much.
The Pohlads announced they’d be selling at last;
Just imagine: this hope was mere months in the past.
The season is over — was that a rum year,
Blundering and chundering with plenty to jeer.
Quadruple-A team and the owners are scum,
With this in September, you see why we’re glum?
They call this Twinsball where I’m from.
But then came July and the deadline for trades,
And moves were announced coming down in cascades.
A week after this came the news of no selling,
And down off the cliffside we were jointly propelling.
Now in the cellar we don’t want to reside,
So thanks to the White Sox, too low for our slide.
Despite all the rubbish that’s left us this mess,
At our core, we are fans of the Twins nonetheless.
The season is over — was that a rum year,
Blundering and chundering with plenty to jeer.
It’s clubbed out a beat like a harbinger’s drum;
We’ve suffered so long, every fan is a chum;
They call this Twinsball where I’m from.
The field is set; we raise a glass:
Joe Pohlad, shove it right up your ass.
Now plop in your seat and crack open a beer,
There’s a game and we live in the present, so stand up and cheer!
They call this Twinsball where I’m from,
They call this Twinsball where I’m from.
