Ahem. Right. Yes. Good evening. Mr. H here. Just a quick word on the state of the global pitch, what? Disgraceful scenes. Now, opening the batting, we have Captain Keir, A rather defensive maneuver, I fear. He’s shouldering arms at the slightest of swings, A jellyfish waiting to see what life brings. He won't take a stance, he won't play the ball, Just pacing the crease and awaiting the call. There's Mandelson vetting and frightfully bad fuss, He’s tossing the bureaucrats under the bus! To ring up his rivals is far too profound, He leaves a quick voice note to keep it all sound. You call yourself statesman? I call it a duck! You've run out your partners and run out of luck! Oh, that’s not cricket, it’s simply not done! You don't nick the bails just to say that you won. It's thoroughly beastly, an absolute rot, A gentleman plays with the talent he's got. You're ruining the wicket, you're making a mess, I must say, I'm feeling a touch of distress. (Howzat!) Now entering the fray from across the great pond, Of gold-plated dugouts he’s terribly fond. A Bodyline bowler with rather loud hair, Who screams that the umpire is simply unfair! He scoffs at our carriers, calls leaders quite weak, A rather obnoxious and vulgar technique. He edges the ball to the keeper's own mitts, Refuses to walk, throws the most dreadful fits! He pops on his socials to loudly declare, "I scored five hundred runs! I'm the best, put it there!" Dear fellow, your flannels are totally wrong, A crass exhibition, a boundary slog! Oh, that’s not cricket, it’s simply not done! You don't nick the bails just to say that you won. It's thoroughly beastly, an absolute rot, A gentleman plays with the talent he's got. You're ruining the wicket, you're making a mess, I must say, I'm feeling a touch of distress. (Howzat!) Now look at the two of them, middle of the pitch, A transatlantic row, an embarrassing hitch. They're bumping their noggins, they're having a spat, "I brokered the ceasefire!" "No, I managed that!" Are we on a break? Are we partners or not? They're arguing fiercely while losing the plot. I stand here between them, releasing a sigh, The Darjeeling's freezing, the crumpets are dry. The spirit of sport is now ground in the dirt, By chaps who are wearing a terrible shirt. So pack up the kit bag, unlace all the spikes, I'm leaving these scoundrels to do what they likes. Your footwork's atrocious, your manners are bleak, It’s all quite deplorable, frankly, a cheek. I’m off to the pavilion, to sit and to think, And pour myself something phenomenally pink. A very stiff gin is the only reply... Pip pip, tally ho, and a hearty goodbye! (Strum, clash, stop!)
