Browse all poems and songs in the 'James Finn Garner' Category


Sammy Sosa, the Founder of Chicago

by James Finn Garner

Leave aside the famed DuSable
Who thought he wore this feather in his cap.
We’ll forgive you this historical bobble,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.

Forget Jim Thompson and Hinky Dink Kenna
Who lay the town in corruption’s lap.
They came and went, but at the center,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.

Dion O’Banion and Al Capone
Made sure the suds were e’er on tap.
Those slobs can’t call this town their own–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.

Sure, Sandburg, Bellow, Studs could write,
Curtis Mayfield was a soulful chap,
Muddy Waters was a man, all right,
But Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.

I’ll admit MJ could play some hoops.
Hack, Ernie, Big Hurt and Pudge could slap
A few hits around, but no big whoops–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.

 

Sosa’s colossal ego is on full display in a recent, rare interview with former Cubs PR man Chuck Wosserstrom.



Walking a Tightrope

by James Finn Garner

Chicago fans live and breathe hope
Yet Joe’s moves would’ve frightened the pope.
Did he forget he had Wood, Grimm and Strop
When from the pen Aroldis did lope?
Was he “giving himself enough rope”
Or following his horoscope,
Hurtling down a treacherous slope
By aggressively pushing the envelope?
Was our genius skipper really a dope?

Nope!

 



Because Nothing Rhymes with Schwarber

by James Finn Garner

Sluggo! Sluggo!
My eyes went all bug-o
And I gave myself a hug-o
When into the lineup you were plug-oed!

Ya big bald lug-o
You give our heartstrings a tug-o
Don’t pull out the rug-o
Or let us get smug-o
Now let’s toss the Tribe in the jug-o
Welcome back, Sluggo!

 



It’s Math Time with Joe Buck!

by James Finn Garner

If you want to learn this game baseball,
Joe Buck is the guy to call.

No matter what your rooting position
He can help you do the addition.

If you yourself couldn’t add the same:
“One homer makes this a five-run game.”

Stumped by three innings times three outs?
“Nine chances left,” the perfesser shouts.

But you might never grasp one call:
Why this putz is employed at all.

 



Kluber’s Clan

By James Finn Garner

With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Canada did Kluber’s clan
A stately baseball dome lay waste
Where Molson’s had in rivers ran
Through taverns ‘cross the frozen land
.     Now left a sour taste

But once before had Cleveland’s Merritt
Begun a game, yet they could bear it
With Miller near to pull his load
The ball did Crisp and Carlos paste
A gonfalon triumph on the road
And two decades of grief erased.

 

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