In the dead of December, the town of N.Y.
He was surfing the Internet site, IT IS HIGH,
He was knee deep in twitters, way late in the night,
the G.M. said, “Something’s not right!”
He heard a small voice, like the
squeak of a squawk.
“It’s Santana!” it said. “He has gone on the
Then he heard it again, just a tiny sad groan,
Like some gas from
the cheeks of Sir Sidney Ponson,
He untwittered his twitters and picked up the phone.