Lob's Labour Lost Poem by Kishore Asthana

The forehand I try, with a fearsome cry
Alas, the net is too high
My backhand with a smile, is an unguided missile
Followed through by a sigh

With tremendous nerve, I serve with a swerve
The balls haven't been found as yet
As I've said all along, my volleys are strong
They're still mending holes in the net

When they put me on the ladder, I attacked it like an adder
'Twas a battle of the bad and the worse
The games we played may not have made the grade
But did we grumble and curse!

Actually it was not fair, too many lines were there
They made my shots all go out
I'd still call them in, but they said 'twas a sin
And it made my opponents shout

The wire-net all around' should be higher and more sound
It'd make tennis cheaper to play
I bet that the cost, of the balls I've lost
Would feed the world for a day