Surrey

Surrey

Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley wards at will
John Betjeman

Royal Thames of rhyme and rumour
Adumbrates South London's scene
South Bank, its creative tumour
Spreads from boards to England's green.

Totus mundi agit histor-
-iem writes the laurelled bard.
In our play there's India's Mister
Dravid and his day-long guard

Forward defensive; forward defensive
Leave; leave; forward defend once more.
Well timed off-drive making pensive
Englanders admire his score.

So tenacious, but still lacking
What the French call joie de vivre.
Of Tendulkar's stylish batting
While bereft it's leave; leave; leave.

Crowds in gaudy multicolour
Masticate and hope for more.
Cart-horse Caddick will deliver
Caught at gully- Laxman. Four

Hundred comes too quickly, sadly
Then a run-out: Ratra's dash
Far too quick for Dravid, badly
Short, departs our play. Then, rash,

Wickets clatter like the carriage
Of a Vauxhall train- as while
There's proposal of a marriage-
Indians dismissed by guile

Of the spinners Vaughan and Gile-o
Five hundred and eight all out.
England next. Now tea and filo
Pastry. Four, six, four, leave- rout.

Sunny Sunday evening Surrey
England's best now join the scene
In a pure emphatic hurry
Vaughan, Trescothick, white and clean

Make quite awesome fifties (nearly)
Forty-seven Vaughan accrues.
Finally as sun gets weary
Off they go to hisses; boos.

Crowd is drunk, and sing some songs that
Tell the stewards where to get
Sortieing with pink and wrong hat
100's 3-1, a bet-

Scuppered by sly Surrey's weather
Final day gone down the drain
Copious lack of willow, leather,
Even Dravid stops- for rain.

Rome-like gasholders- their humour
Melancholy, hold a theme,
Stewart: 'I look forward to the
Ashes coming home.' We dream.
Royal Thames of rhyme and rumour
Adumbrates South London's scene.