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!
“Shmata Trade”,
For All the “Schleppers” in the “Trade”
The Village Elliott: 7/16
If Dad schlepped Sox the shmatas Sale dissed,
He’d say, “Trade deadline, Chris, can’t resist
Just by claiming ‘No Sale,’
But can have at wholesale;
Call it ‘Good” once my tuchas, you’ve kissed!”