I strolled down to the park last week
To watch a game of cricket.
They speak a different language there –
Please, what’s a sticky wicket?
I stood with rapt attention
But soon became downhearted.
How is something over when
It hasn’t even started?
I thought most bowls held soup or fruit
And bats could squeak and fly,
That bowlers were a type of hat
And maidens rather shy.
The people sitting on the grass
All loved to clap and shout.
They yelled out things like “Four!” “No, six!”
And “Is he still in or out?”
They had a tea-break halfway through,
The sandwiches were good.
I concentrated really hard
But still misunderstood.
The next time I go for a walk
And see a cricket match,
I might learn how to spin a bowl
Or not to drop a catch.
My girlfriend doesn’t seem convinced.
“You’re all confused”, she said.
“Why fuss with all those words and rules –
Try something else instead.
I’ll walk beside you to the park;
Don’t buy that cricket glove.
We’ll sit and watch the tennis where
At least they speak of love.”
© Elaine Harris