Cricket-A Mans Game Poem by Keith Oldrey

This glorious game, we named it cricket
The finest sport (besides our middle wicket)
How can you describe the fun we get
With mere verbs, adjectives or epithet.
For cricket’s hardly a game at all
Overs of boredom with bat missing ball
No it’s the chat that I love
Placing this game on a plane above.
The pleasantries exchanged between bowler and bat
It doesn’t come, much better than that
The chat twixt keeper and slip
The humour without malice, the icy quip
There is nothing like the camaraderie
The laughter and the hilarity
When leather hits the inside of your knee.
Solicitous inquiries about the pain.
Captain quietly praying for a dropp of rain.
White flannelled fools in sylvan places
No rubbish talked here, of pars or aces
Leisurely walks around tree-lined grounds
Senior spectators with tales that astound
Of beamers and yorkers and players well hung
On summers evenings their praises are sung.
Nothing gives quite as much pleasure
As the craic, the fun, sounds of bat on leather
A hot summers day, the shout of HOWZAT
It just cannot get better than that.
Waking spectators from their cozy snooze.
“Well just a half then, we’ve nothing to lose”
It really doesn’t matter, win, lose or draw.
Cricket’s the game, we truly adore.