Twa bannocks and ane slappit dreath,
Four stangs and ilka towdie
Drippit frae bed in Lendrick Muir
To find the weather cloudy.
"Clackmannan's curse is on the team
That threads the Yetts o' Muckhart
To drive to Comrie after noon:
By nightfall they'll be fuckhart.
"When August snarks and snickets,
Wha drees to Comrie via Crieff
Shall lose by muckle wickets."
Of bubble and of squeak,
In Lendrick's vast baronial hall
No Mystic heard him speak.
Clackmannan County beaten,
The Dollar pounded (long live Stirling) -
And breakfast to be eaten.
Sam wants one rasher more;
Prise Aditalia out of bed;
Scrape Windy off the floor.
(The transit will be choc-a);
Where's Kate? To pass the time away
Matt plays the rest at soccer.
Jim Thomson's lips are puckered,
But smiling the Mystics pass
Outwith the Pool of Muckhart.
To Comrie - "after noon".
The coin is tossed and Jim has lost.
"Beware the August moon."
Beside him Sancho Tai Wai,
Planning new ways to get run out
While watching the ball fly by.
Then strikes a statelier pose,
But Tai Wai strikes at nothing at all.
A run? What's one of those?
Who twist the spine of cricket.
A yorker's bowled, and casually
Dunc lets it hit his wicket.
And storm clouds looming dourly
As harlequin-capped Chave walks out
To be replaced by Borley.
Still batting, Tai-Wai Panza
Watches while Adi takes guard
And Talia writes a stanza,
(Oh sadly, Talia, sadly!),
Watches a virgin all in white
Who calls himself Neil Hadley
("Sing Derry Down, sing Derry"),
Watches the snick that signifies
That Charlie's lost his cherry.
Ah, how the nerve ends tingle!
Write that we lost the match, but add
That Charlie got a single.
"Beware the Coyles of Muck."
But monumentalise the fact
That Tai-Wai broke his duck.
Was firmly struck for two.
His 51st ball was his last.
What can the Mystics do?
Plays out the last three balls
Of Gibbins ninth (three for 11).
Another wicket falls.
Scored one run in succession,
Clean bowled by Captain Oates to leave
A mystical depression.
It's 25 for four.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man.
Stout Sumo sets his jaw.
He will not flick or falter.
Tedious as Tavare at Lords,
He does his David Salter.
And Captain Oates is resting.
The wicket's slow, the bounce unsure
And Windy finds it testing.
Has climbed to over 50.
Clackmannan's curse has spent its force
(By Christ, the bowling's thrifty!).
Beware the gathering gloom-o.
From out the West, the red, red mist
Is closing over Sumo.
Deceives as well as flatters,
And Sumo lunges, Sumo plunges,
Sumo's wicket shatters.
How long can we survive?
It's after four o'clock by now;
We're 53 for five.
That swells the breasts of Mystics.
Ernie and Windy - chalk and cheese.
These are the bare statistics:
Three sixes and three fours.
Ernie is trusty, Windy's feisty.
Kate claps. Annie adores.
Rita forgets her breeding.
The sun shines bright when Sarah smiles -
And Jenny keeps on reading.
"Clackmannan's curse is on the team",
Poised for a further twist,
And Father Oates the avatar,
He of the tricky wrist.
We're 103 for five.
The clock ticks to 4:34.
Long may the Mystics thrive!
We're 103 for six
And skipper Jim is walking in,
Smiling and shitting bricks.
What perilous incision!
Windy is LBW
(But who made the decision?).
Wendon the golden duck!
Biz grabs his box and then his bat.
"Beware the Coyles of Muck."
And second ball for Kevin,
So skipper Jim ends nought not out,
No chance of a replevin.
And one for 35
has turned to six for 36.
Who doubts the curse upon our drive?
And purple blooms the heather.
There's sun paint on the mountain range
And white the mystic feather.
And sleeks in like a flat cat.
Blond Gibbins stands, quite undeterred,
And swats him with a flat bat.
But broody Bryan beats the blond
And bowls him round his legs.
It's nine for one: the game's afoot.
Look at those broken pegs!
And Davidson is all at sea.
Six balls he plays and misses.
"Give us a wave, Bry," cries the crowd.
He does - and Kate blows kisses.
Before another wicket.
Caught Wind, bowled Wend. 19 for two.
We've got a game of cricket!
Downs a lager and lime,
Straps on his pads and leaves the tent,
Says, "I may be some time."
Nine overs brought them fifty.
Words might describe our fielding,
But one of them's not "nifty".
That sings on when the song stops:
And doubly cursed and trebly trounced
That bowls too many long hops."
Short balls are meat and drink
On Comrie's bumble-tumble track.
We need to pause and think ...
Than at one stage looked certain.
Bryan two, Jim, Kev and Windy one;
But there we draw the curtain
Now shattered for eternity.
Next stop, the Royal in Comrie town,
Your mystical fraternity.
(Who got the fine for snoring?).
The Aussie pro would have agreed
That Annie's good at scoring.
As player of the tour:
"Well, unaccustomed as I am ...
What did I get this for?"
Avaunt all inhibitions!
We're no minching malaperts,
We're Mystics and Magicians.
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