Cricket in a time of influenza
The grass is mown, the wicket should take spin,
The boundary is marked out in crisp white.
The sky’s bight blue and clear for it is spring,
And cricket is the Englishman’s delight.
The flannelled fools running down the pitch,
The far-off thwack of leather on willow,
The ball that disappears into the ditch,
Hazy summer days in which we wallow
Are banished now by Government decree.
Virus contaminates the village green.
Across the country there’s something obscene
In playing fields lying fallow this season.
A summer without cricket’s beyond reason
And there isn’t any honey left for tea.
Hear and watch this here….
Not at all.
Is a menace.
A sticky wicket.
Makes you sick.
Riding a horse
You can’t drive far
In a racing car.
All we can do is talk
Or go for a nice long walk
And call it golf.
Thanks for visiting. On these pages you will find some verse and some worse.
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