Wimbledon - Poem by Louis Parr
The sixth month is here as the crowds begin to cheer,
welcome to Wimbledon.
The players have travelled far, a quick hello, then au revoir,
a simple introduction.
Ace after ace, the ball hit at such pace,
the best are being defined.
Game after game, from the strings between the frame,
a true skill of mankind.
Set after set, like a game of roulette,
but the result is already known.
Match after match, more players to be dispatched,
but will the champion be home-grown?
Fred Perry in thirty-six, oh how the clock has ticked,
for our next male victor.
Virginia Wade in seventy-seven, was the last of all of Britain,
to give us some hope, just a glimmer.
Sixty-four doubles, oh they will have their struggles,
for the victorious silver cup.
Round after round, two champions shall be crowned,
at the famous, All England Club.
Singles number one two eight, but one two seven will have to wait,
for their moment of glory.
Never too old, never too young, your form can always be re-strung,
whether you be twenty, or forty.
The Rosewater Dish is a females wish,
to be held above her head.
The Gilt Cup can make any man want to pick up,
the tennis racquet hidden in his shed.
Nineteen courts altogether, only one roof, pray for good weather,
so that tennis can be played.
The lawn is faultless, no sign of baldness,
a match for any cascade.
Another ball into the net, but the ball boy will simply collect,
their uniform stands out from others.
The umpire calls 'new balls please', the players will surely appease,
of the new, bright yellow colours.
Strawberries and cream, are held in esteem,
by every Wimbledon citizen.
But don't forget scones, they are also well known...
Welcome to Wimbledon.
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