By Stu Shea
Sure, they won the World Series just two years ago,
But that’s history, bro.
Chicago is slumping
The media’s dumping
And everyone’s jumping the ship.
The season’s turned into the crumbs of corn chips.
No one’s even surprised
At Guillen’s rude slips of the lip
For his team’s gotten older
And the value of aging, .230-ish sluggers is — zip.
Shouldn’t someone ring Kenny Williams’ bell?
Inform him, pray tell,
That after two years,
Even good socks can smell?
Published in Chicago White Sox, Management, Pure doggerel, Stu Shea | Link to this poem | No Comments