Browse all poems and songs in the 'Chicago White Sox' Category


“No!”: Sale

by the Village Elliott

Chris said to the Sox, “Not for Sale!
Throwback unis’ pale hose much too pale!”
Tore them all into shreds.
Did Chris “sail off his meds”
Or contrive to get forwarded mail?

 



The Ballad of Chris Sale

by James Finn Garner

Attend the White Sox uniform
It doesn’t breathe when the weather’s warm
A laughing stock since the day it premiered
Of all throwbacks, by far the most weird . . .
Enter Sale
Yes, Chris Sale
The demon tailor of 35th Street.

The collar’s large and the tail’s untucked
Like back in the day when disco sucked
Terrible PJs that no fan should watch
And by the fifth inning it rides up the crotch . . .
Beware Sale
That Chris Sale
The demon tailor of 35th Street

Raise your scissors high, Saley!
Don’t stop your tirade!
While you are at it, you can scuttle a trade!

A leader of men with no visible fuse
An atomic bomb whene’er he choose
Keep up your guard, ye White Sox brass
If you turn your back, you’ll get stabbed in the ass . . .

By Saley
By Chris Sale
The demon tailor of 35th Street!

 



“Baseball, Baseball” by Jane Morgan



Pale Hose Woes

by Jim Siergey

S’been rough on the kids at The Cell
When called up, soon down they all fell
A backache, a foot break,
Concussions, fer chrissake!
Their trips to The Bigs’ve been from Hell

.
In the past week, White Sox minor league call-ups Kevyn Smith incurred back spasms during warm-ups before his initial appearance, outfielder Jason Coats suffered a concussion in a collision in his first inning of play and Matt Davidson broke his foot rounding first base after hitting a single.

 



But When Quintana Pitches…

by RJ Lesch

Those White Sox batters? They’re a fearsome bunch.
For power or for average they can hit.
Most every day they pack a deadly punch.
But when Quintana pitches, they all sit.

The South Side Glove Men all have awesome range.
Their fielding prowess makes opponents moan.
Their hands are sure and soft, and so it’s strange
That when Quintana pitches, they are stone.

Chicago’s mighty bullpen has no peer.
Their supple arms throw filthy stuff indeed.
They face the toughest hitters with no fear.
But when Quintana starts, they blow the lead.

Jose Quintana’s skill we all esteem,
But when the poor guy pitches, where’s his team?

 

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Copyright 2007 Bardball.