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


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.



Mystery Date

by James Finn Garner

An unknown  team has claimed Yasiel Puig
It could be one in either league
But we can guess, despite paltry news,
That it’s a squad without much to lose.

 



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.

 



Attention Must Be Paid

by James Finn Garner

Somewhere among the
Kiss Cam, and the
Mascot Race, and the
Find The Bagel Under the Helmet video, and the
Helmet Nachos, and the
Pork-Chop-on-a-Stick, and the
Mandatory seventh inning patriotic song, and the
Salute to the division winners of 15 years ago,

I saw a defensive shift

And I thought,
Wow! How do they know to do that?!?

 



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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