Weekend Round-Up. Twins at Milwaukee.
Friday. Brewers 3, Twins 1.
Saturday. Brewers 7, Twins 6.
Sunday. Twins 5, Brewers 2.

It may surprise you, but in addition to her duties as Twins batgirl—which are all quite consuming, I tell you what—Batgirl also is a patron of the arts. She's particularly interested in the area's burgeoning Romantic poetry scene, and has a fondness for the work of the local poet known as John "Spanky" Keats, not only for his great appreciation of material beauty, but for his love of Batgirl's own Minnesota Twins. Naturally, Mr. Keats was quite happy when the Twins changed from Astroturf to grass, and certainly you know him from his many fine pro-outdoor ballpark editorials in Endymion Weekly.

Why, just Saturday night, after the Brewers came back on the Twins to guarantee a series loss and an incredibly ass-crap recent record, Batgirl went to her local ale house, a popular hang out for young poets, and found Mr. Keats in a dark corner scrawling away by candlelight. After buying herself a nice stiff whisky, downing it, and ordering another, Batgirl approached him.

"Hey, Spank."

"Hail, Batgirl," he said, nodding at the glass in BG's hand. "Bound for Lethe, I see."

"Damn skippy," Batgirl said, taking a gulp. "It's all the sucking. It wears on a girl."

"I know," he said. "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though hemlock I had drunk."

"Exactly," said BG.

"I'm actually working on something right now about this series," he said. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure!"

"It's a little rough," he said. "But I think you'll get the idea." He stood up, and cleared his throat. "Imagine, if you will, a deserted Wisconsin hill in a barren land. A sensitive poet is taking a walk in nature, as is his wont, and he comes across a man lying listlessly amongst the tall blades of grass. The man looks quite familiar to the poet, though his face is pale and his eyes unfocused, and upon closer inspection, the poet sees it is the manager of the Twins. So the poet says...ahem:"

O, WHAT can ail thee, Skip o' Twins?
Alone and palely loitering?
The sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.

O, what can ail thee, Skip o' Twins!
So haggard and so woebegone?
The vat of Gatorade is full,
And the line-up's done.

I see a stress rash on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

"That's nice," said BG. "I like the fading rose part."

"Thanks," said Keats. "I like it too. So, anyway, then, the manager looks at the poet and coughs weakly and slowly, he begins to tell his story."

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a foam cheese for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my mascot bear,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
The Twins fight song.

She found me roots of lager sweet,
And honeyweiss, and Munchen dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“Come play my crew of Brew.”

She took me to her new ballpark,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her beer gog'ling eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw sad Twins, and Prince Fielder too,
And my boys, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sucking has come upon us all,
And no birds sing.

The poet finished, and bowed his head for a moment. "Well?" he said, looking up at me. "What do you think?"

"It's pretty good," BG said. "Dark."

"Yeah," said Keats. "Well, what can you do?"

"I don't know," BG said, taking another drink. "I just don't know."

Keats sighed and took BG's hands and looked deeply into her eyes. "Remember, BG," he says, "a thing of sucking does not suck forever." He titled his head and thought for a moment. "Or, conversely, sucking is ass-crap, and ass-crap sucking. That is all ye know and all ye need to know."

Batgirl nodded. "You bet your sweet ass, Spanky."

He smiled. "You sure have a way with words, BG."

Posted by Batgirl at June 26, 2005 04:33 PM