by Cardew Robinson I'm a cricket bat, a cricket bat Is what I'm proud to be. My father's Stewart Surridge And my mum a willow tree. My single life time mission Which of course is known to all Is to smite my mortal enemy The hard cruel cricket ball. Balls - how I love to smash 'em, Balls - to frustrate and to foil, As they try to hurry past me Or try sneaking past - with guile. And believe me, I can do it, Be I called on soon or late, Just provided that my master Lets me stand up nice and straight. I'll send that round red rotten thing, Just where it ought to go, If I'm only standing upright With my face toward the foe. And that, for many happy years, Is just what I have done, Because my batsman owner Was an England number one. But one day, to my horror, This base, ungrateful star He signed my chest and gave me To a charity bazaar. And if that wasn't bad enough, (Thrown out by number one) I'm bought by a Lord's Taverner Who only play’s - for fun! Where once I stood up proudly Waiting each ball to be struck. I now lean limp and loosely, Like a badly ruptured duck. Balls; now they all get past me. Balls; whenever they do please. Balls with leers and balls with sneers All balls; with ball faced ease. And when I get within a mile Of those red pesky things, They always find my edges, Or my oil hole, where it stings. So now I'm a sad picture In a bad state of decay, A bat with battered edges With my oil hole worn away. A far cry from that bat I was. 'Cos now I know full well, The bat I most resemble Is a bat straight out of hell. My appearance at the wicket Now brings tears to purists' eyes, I once so firm and rigid, Like a lucky bride's first prize. The effect upon my owner, Every day more clearly shows, Yes my sale brought him no century, As only Parsons knows.
The end