by Stephen Jones
Hey, Aroldis Chapman —
You’re a Pinstriper one day,
And a Cub the next?
(A pause. Then a sigh.)
Too bad. Nice arm.
We hardly knew ya . . .
But whadda ya gonna do?
It’s a relievers’ market.
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?
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 Chris Sale
The demon tailor of 35th Street!
by Stephen Jones
Right now, A-Rod and right handers don’t mix.
Right now, when he bats, it’s swing, miss . . . nix.
So, he’s chillin’ and sittin’ on the pines,
Girardi looks to players past their prime,
And the fan faithful wonders aloud:
If the team mantra is age before hitting,
Then A-Rod is right: Go with sitting.
Loves Duran Duran
But will take a paz
Likes watching “The Apprentice”.
“What I can’t figure out, man,
Is where they found a talking orangutan.”
Is the big kahuna
In Miami’s centerfield
By Red Groom’s carnival sculpture he’s almost concealed.
Took his chances
With a street vendor’s tamales
And is now very solly.