'Fulmer' after John Betjeman
Come Korgy's bombs and fall near Slough!
There isn't long for Fulmer now,
Don't let them smash it over cow.
Last overs, Death!
Come, Webley and blow to smithereens
Their number six, and his Sareen,
Tea fruit, tea rolls, tea nuggets, not lean,
Big plates, bad breath.
In the air, an edge; catch, you clown!
We'll win if they go seven down
The next one surely can't go down
Get Ormo's beers!
And get that man with double chin
Who really doesn't deserve to win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In Tamby's tears.
And smash his stumps of polished oak
And smash his hands that played that stroke
'tween the legs of our bound'ry bloke
And give him hell.
Forgive the bald young Ben who add-
ed sixty-five, the stinking cad;
It's not his fault he's getting mad,
He batted well.
When will our top order begin to know
How to score runs without Chasseaud,
(The blood does not so often go
To Toby's head)
And talk of sport and the FA Cup
In the bar with flat, warm drinks to sup
Can't mask this abject field cock-up:
Thirty-four extras bled.
Stump him, on the last ball, with care
Earn a tie: not ideal, but somewhat fair
Don't throw it straight through the fucking air
And miss the bails.
Come, Korgy's bombs and fall near Slough
How we lost this game just God knows how.
I only want to forget it now;
Pacific fails.
