by Hilary Barta
Take me out to the ballgame
(at Mega Predatory Capitalism Corp Park)
Take me out to the crowd
(taking selfies, texting their “friends” and checking email)
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack
(How much? They’re PEANUTS!)
I don’t care if I never get back
(Actually, I do have to work in the morning)
For it’s root, root, root for the home team
(full of spoiled, right-wing millionaires)
If they don’t win, it’s a shame
(There’s always next year)
So it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game!
(now new and “improved” with replay challenges)
By Stu Shea
You may think you’ve traded me,
For some prospect at Pulaski,
But call my agent–he knows laws.
I have myself a no-trade clause!
I will not go to this new town,
I will not go by air or ground!
You should have asked before you dealt,
Before you tried to swap my pelt,
If I would play for Greeber City,
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!