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


Autumn’s New Retirees

by James Finn Garner

Before the Fall gets underway,
Let us doff our caps and say
Goodbye to those who’ll junk their cleats,
Leave the park and walk the streets.

Super-versatile Angel Chone
Will now be the utility man at home.
Grant Balfour, hothead Aussie,
Can only fume when his wife gets bossy.

Phil Humber’s vaunted perfect game
Was his sole stat worth noting (such a shame).
The Prince has trouble with his neck–
He’ll inspire no more fear on-deck.

Tex and A-Rod will leave the Yanks
And all their fans will mumble thanks,
While Raf Soriano has called an end
To tell war stories, a fine fireman.

But let’s not forget the other guys,
Young tyros once, with starry eyes,
Who gave their all but somehow missed
The general manager’s call-up list.

They’re just as key to the game as any
Adam LaRoche or Brad Penny.
Talent, drive and dreams they bid,
Just like us when we were kids.

 



The White Sox, Natch

by James Finn Garner

Jose Abreu has the slash
Anderson displays some flash
Frazier’s got Hudepohls in a cache
But Saladino has the ‘stache.

Chris Sale aint no Versatch’
Quintana needs a hit of hash
Shields is (I hope) abashed
But Saladino has the ‘stache.

Ventura’s seat’s turning to ash
Reinsdorf sure won’t spend the cash
Harrelson’s completely bats–
But Saladino has the ‘stache.

 

I pray he doesn’t wax it soon.



“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!

 



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