Not Cricket

A description of modern-day cricket in the style of Sir Henry Newbolt’s ‘breathless hush’ poem, Vitai Lampada

There’s a wretched crush in the stands today,

Ten fours to make and a match to lose,

The perfect pitch to inspire play,

Scant hope of cheer in tomorrow’s news.

No gentle clapping from the crowd,

No tea cups, only lager cans

And ribald chanting, lewd and loud

From the low-brow Barmy Army fans.

A wicked Yorker hits the wicket

Bowled with a ball besmeared with dirt,

Bowled at a speed that’s just not cricket!

Passed by an umpire not alert.

The stubborn batsman stays at the crease,

Disputes the call and will not go,

Provokes more chants and disturbs the peace,

An unseemly sight and a jolly poor show!

They play for what? Alas no more

‘Play up, play up and play the game!’

It’s cash alone they bargain for

And all the spoils that come with fame.

There’ll be no hush in the town tonight,

Just one team drowning in Champagne,

Long gone, those gentlemen in white

Who played for England, not for gain.