When Rome fell down, Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.
He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.
As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street, in Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James,
To name a few.
Amassing titles and cups
From every division
As far as I know.
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.
No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long pimples for our Don.
Give him a Barna, any plain spongeless pimpled bat,
To flash across the table.
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess
Will always go down well.
This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.
© PB in Yorkshire,5th December,2009 at 15.30.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem