The whole of the Swami brood is undefeated at present, a lovely and enjoyable place to be, and yet instead of rolling en masse on our picks as we have done through the first six weeks, we now will branch out on our own, seeking the elusive and majestic Trifecta win.
We begin with the Spawn, who have elected to ride the HOF arm of one Mr. Peyton Manning. The Broncos of Denver shall best the 49ers of San Francisco, whose pans will come up empty once again in Mile High.
We move next to the Factor, the beautiful spouse of Swami, who is miffed the Spawn has taken the Broncos, and instead will settle for the HOF arm of the horseshoe heir, Mr. Andrew Luck. The Colts of Indianapolis shall best the Bengals of Cincinnati, and continue the tiger tailspin.
Last, we move to the Swami himself, who always like a little Poe in his life. And so open here I fling the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there steps a raven of the saintly days of yore. And this raven, never flitting, still with patient perch is sitting, on the gleaming statue of the Swami by the door. And his eyes have all the seeming of that Swami who is dreaming, of the spawn and wife who family mantle burdens bore. And this raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, on this night shall ease my plight, and yield a safely winning score.
That is all.
