I found some poems I wrote about cricket almost a decade ago...

[eddie]

In the style of Alfred, Lord Tennyson...

 

Half a bat, half a bat,
The umpire has blundered?
He could have been out for nought
Yet made four hundred.
The Windies had thirtythree
When they lost Daren Ganga.
leg before to Freddie
and the crowd bayed in anger. 

“No whitewash!” one did cry:
"Score us a hundred"
As Brian Lara took guard
He desperately wondered.
A sighter - perhaps a bye,
Please bowler, friendly pie
But Flintoff's no easy guy.
Then into the valley of Death
Harmison thundered. 

A wide to right of him?
A wide to left of him?
A wide high above him?
Everyone wondered;
A shout rings out "Flaming hell -
"The ball should contain a bell",
Then everyone caught their breath.
Into the mouth of hell
Harmison thundered.

Lara, the sabre-stroke
His defence cast asunder.
The bowler in triumph,
The Ashington Wonder. 

"Howzat?" to right of him,
"Howzat?" to left of him,
"Howzat?" behind him
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Lambasted with shot and shell,
Lara, the hero fell,
England had fought so well
Why no finger of Death?
NOT OUT? Oh, bloody hell!
Never an easy one
"If only", Vaughan wondered. 

When will that memory fade
As the records, to waste, were laid,
All the world wonder’d?
The sixes and fours he made!
Just read the scorebook,
Lara - four hundred!

[eddie]

In the style of Shelley...

 

I met a traveller from a Red Rose land
Who said : Two all-beef pattie-fed legs of stone
Stand in McDonalds. Near them, in the sand,*
Half-drunk, a shattered Ponting lies, whose frown,
And Brad Hogg's lip, and beer in his cold hand
Tell of a man-monster fed on burgers well,
Which yet survive, to stamp on these Aussie things,
Of the runs that mocked them, and the wickets that fell,
And from those trembling lips these words we hear:
"His name is Freddiemandias, King of Kings:
Look upon his works, so Mighty, and despair!"
No urn remained. For on that day,
The colossal giant, peerless yet fair
Did surely wrest the Ashes England's way.

[eddie]

In the style of Kipling...

 

If you can eat the bread of those about you
Even when they are blaming it on you,
If you can clear the shelf when all men doubt you 
And even finish yesterday's fish stew,
If your clean plate is ready there and waiting,
Ready for rainbow trout, or even pies,
Ignoring the chef's top Michelin rating,
And yet you're motivated by the size:

If there's ice-cream - and you eat even faster,
If you can drink - and not head for the loo
If you can eat - yet not let rip a blaster
And not need Number One or Number Two;
If you can bear to eat though teeth be broken
And ignore Calories and Kilojoules,
And eat your food with never a word spoken,
Think talking should be made against the rules:

If you're prepared to sacrifice your innings
Not caring if the game be won or lost,
So long as you're there at the queue's beginnings
For lunch is free - the club will bear the cost;
If you can eat the heart, the nerve, the sinew
And still be munching though your team have gone,
And still you say that there is nothing in you
Except your tapeworm saying "Now, hold on!"

If you can wave to crowds who want to hurt you,
And eat those pellets from the rabbit's hutch, 
If you think avarice is still a virtue 
If you can tell a flavour by its touch,
If you can eat twelve shellfish in a minute
And crunch your way through the shell of a clam,
To save the time you'd spend walking to bin it,
Guess what, my friend? Your name is Inzamam.

[eddie]

In the style of Wordsworth...

 

I fell asleep once in the crowd,
The play that day devoid of thrills,
When all at once, though head be bowed,
I saw an Aussie munching pills.
I can't be sure with eyes like these
But mark my words - they weren't dried peas. 

A telephone rang in my mind -
The pitch report was on the way.
If overheard, he could be fined
Or worse - be not allowed to play.
But no, the talk was of romance -
'Tossing', a word I heard, perchance?

"Can't bowl, can't throw" I heard that day
As clear as ought, it seemed to me.
Scott Muller on my mind did prey -
Did Warney say those things of he?
I can't agree with words like that
For Muller also cannot bat.

I woke - the rain poured from the sky.
The umpires both, in pensive mood
Said "Let's go off - the end is nigh
For lunch is due. Let's have some food."
What happened to Shane's weather skills?
At least it helps the daffodils.

[eddie]

In the style of Shakespeare...

 

Shall I compare thee to the great AA? 
Thou art likely to be playing the ball so late. 
Rough winds do shake the bails in Bombay, 
As thou art clean-bowled again through the gate. 
Sometime, the clot Sourav Ganguly whines, 
And often is his regal left-handedness dimmed; 
And every call for runs sometime declined, 
A chance, the fielder's throw to keeper skimmed; 
But this eternal summer, hold thy blade , 
Thy form has sunk lower than the lowest; 
A blade? Thou might as well just wield a spade. 
Thy running too between the wickets is the slowest; 
So long as umpires breathe, have eyes that see, 
Ajit Agarkar, despite thy ineptitude, we love thee.

[Mostyn6]

haha, Inzamam, what a beast.

[EastKentRam]

I mostly think poems are a load of ****, but even I enjoyed the Inzaman Ul Haq one, nice work.

[-JW-]

Any in the style of Steve Brummie??

[DCFCfranco]

I shall now recite to you a true classic from the world of poetry:

 

 

Roses are red

My name's not Dave

This poem makes no sense

Microwave

 

 

I thank you.

[sage]

There was a crusty old poet called Ed

Whose poems all posters dread

The poems came in styles

More numerous than his piles

He keeps reciting even when we've dropped dead

[Gritstone Ram]

There was an old geezer called ed

his post were controversial it's been said

one day we didn't know it

but he turned into a poet

now his post send me to bed.