by Timmy the Intern
I Don’t Like Cricket, I Love It.
Fill up a basket of Eden,
Pork pie parcels,
later to be drunken arseholes,
Pimms and Pints by the Pavillion.
Crack that leather,
trundling, rolling ball,
The sun, the sound, the inevitable batting collapse.
Bobby Cliff on the MP3,
head nods, the score?
Two hundred and three for four.
The barmy army hardly harm the smarmy Aussies.
Break for lunch. Eden opens.
The bowlers seem tireless.
Oh, listen! TMS on the wireless.
Have a listen, have a munch, have a fruity jug of punch.
Then back for the afternoon session,
No need for counting,
no runs, pressure mounting.
HOWZAT! Shot to deep, too flat, caught, that’s that.
Is it over? Not on your life, son.
They shake hands, they stay friends,
but tomorrow they make amends.
Because cricket is just an excuse for an adversarial picnic that never ends.