Though I not
to his side be won,
Nor to his belief
All three are one,
Thought not of Rome
in those ancient times
to Canterbury sent
but bless he whose bat
to the Nursery went
the winds and chimes
no father hears
No prayers nor relics,
nor futile tears,
Straight the wood
and fair the eye
may they make
their bowler comply
And when the scoring
Work subsides
And boundaries recede
like Severn tides
May all soon see
Not only wides
But a scoreboard
pleasing to our side
Not three in one
to us were sent
but three well won
for Stage through Kent.
Author’s Note: August is prime season for cricket, if it does not rain too much. Hence as a diversion from the casual limerick or verse lash wielded against the acts of those pretending to be our lords and masters, I submit for the holidays one dedicated to my friends who mastered their opposition this year at Lord’s (Cricket Ground).
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