Sport (ill-rhymed truncated ballade in rough i.p.)
From round the buzzing world the emails swish,
My inbox fills and refills constantly.
Poets and poet-critics effervesce
With learning, ideas and controversy.
The humourists among them lightly tease
Each other about their self-fashionings.
Those whom the world news depresses
Vent eloquently their frustrations.
Then comes a voice that stirs me to the core:
ŚCan anyone tell me the cricket score?ą
Once I also felt the selfsame pang,
A kiwi expatriate in Britain,
Hearing my team were boldly batting,
I set out through the Leeds traffic certain
My heroes would be worth watching.
As I drove they failed; so many wickets
Fell I saved myself the price of the ticket.
(Who bowled for England in ą64?
Donąt anyone tell me that cricket score.)
I also saw the All Blacks play in Glasgow
The field was frozen, the score I do recall,
(Beside the ice sprayed up from boot and shoulder)
As both teams blocked each other nil-all.
In Melbourne, famous for its cricket ground,
Its ŚMCGą, never will you see me there.
Winter or summer, oval ball or round,
Donąt anyone ask me for the score.
Max Richards
Melbourne
Wednesday 7 September 2005
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