Happy 67th birthday, Mr. Blue!
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!
Baby, if you’ve ever wondered,
Wondered whatever became of me,
I’m pitching in the ‘pen in Cincinnati,
Cincinnati, boy are we cra-a-appy.
Getting tired from bailing out our starters
The worst in homers, walks and ERA
Sure, we won’t ever catch the Cubs or Bucs
But with shelling like this, our fans need combat pay.
It’s crappy and I pitch for Cincinnati . . .