Wimbledon Fortnight Poem by Ernestine Northover

Wimbledon fortnight is here once again,
Whether the sun shines, or whether there's rain,
Out come the nets, the white court lines are drawn,
Another great tennis championship has been born.

The stewards walk on and start taking their places,
Ready to watch players going through their paces,
Seeing that balls are not hit out of court,
These top tennis matches are vigorously fought.

The top seeds have come to show what they can do,
Their fans, with excitement will camp out and queue
To purchase a ticket, which is not easy to get,
To sit through the hours while they win the first set.

It's very nail biting and nerve racking too,
To watch all the moves and be unable to do
Anything to help the poor players, who try,
Especially when the shots are too low or too high.

The thuds of the rackets are rhythmic and strong,
Some serves are too short and some are too long,
The roar of the crowd, when their hero has scored,
And even more so, when their win is assured.

The umpire is diligently watching the game,
He's not here to wallow in fortune and fame,
But he's making sure that there's always fair play,
And that everyone's happy at the end of the day.

The ball boys and girls, who collect all the balls,
When a service is done, listen out for the calls,
From the linesmen, who shout if the shot is not true,
And whisk up the balls. We admire them, we do!

It's love, deuce, advantage, game, set and match,
They battle together, their opponent to dispatch,
The supporters heads sweep, to left and to right,
As they view the tense struggle, the scoring is tight.

But eventually, it's the day of the great final event,
His Royal Highness arrives, it's the tall Duke of Kent,
The atmosphere's electric, the players are here,
The welcome they get is one huge mighty cheer.

The game is well played and the audience are thrilled,
But one's got to win, there's a place to be filled,
The last shot is cast, and the winner jumps high
Over the net, with a loud joyous cry.

The Duke now comes forward, the cup to present,
A very great thrill at the auspicious event,
The winner holds it high up, above his proud head,
He's so lucky, for he only just won by a thread.

But Wimbledon fortnight, has been around now for years,
It's a thrill for the watchers, bringing elation and tears,
With champagne to drink, and those strawberries and cream,
It's the place that's the shrine of a tennis player's dream.