Browse all poems and songs in the 'Scandals' Category


SuperPAC-O-Lantern

by Jim Siergey

A million Dad Ricketts gave Trump-kins
He must think the faithful are bumpkins
With timing that stinks
it’s a crime that might jinx
the Cubbies to turn into pumpkins.

 

Copyright HiJiJi Productions.
All rights reserved and all wrongs righted.



More Mistakes by the Lake

by Michael X. Ferraro

The Cavs’ title notwithstanding,
poor Cleveland’s back to Clevelanding–
a fielding fiasco
by Carlos Carrasco
plus Pryor’s alleged grandstanding.

 

Carlos Carrasco injured, exits after 2 pitches

The Browns get hosed on a ridiculous taunting penalty against Terrelle Pryor



You’re Gonna Miss Alex Rodriguez

by James Finn Garner

As the end of his playing days appears,
I need to ask: Whither A-Rod?
There’ll be no other player left at his tier
On whose neck you can gleefully trod.

No gaffes to rehash, no mistakes to cheer,
No insinuations on his bod,
No schadenfreude thoughts to slur in your beer
That he’s a bum, a starlet, a fraud.

You won’t see Alex this time next year,
And the absence you’ll feel will be odd
Til you choose someone else, with your conscience so clear,
And condemn him like an Old Testament God.

 



“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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