The weather was dark and tetchy, the pitch it felt the same,
As the Mystics, tired and weary, turned up for the game.
The Erratics, ever eager, brought along an entourage,
Whilst the tourists got to batting, kit smelling of fromage.
Sharland earned a garland
For his eighty minute stay,
Borley batted not too poorly,
Edged a few away.
Sid connected with his Id
But gloved Cook off a length,
Whilst Nick Healey really
Seemed to go from strength to strength.
Squire failed to fire:
First ball to McRae, Chave was very brave
(no hat-trick here today). Deke could barely speak
At the catch that Berry took, Webb began to ebb
As the Mystics tail-end shook. Jim, a four from him,
Then a premature demise.
Fraser, sharp as a razor
Was not out (no surprise).
Grumps smoothed out the lumps,
No pushover he,
Mystics 158 for nine
Going in for tea.
The interlude: drink and food issued from the caravan
Children played, Mystics swayed, tour-weary to a man.
The wicket state vexed Peter as we washed each cup and saucer,
Was this a Mystery Play or an earthy Tale from Chaucer?
McRae, four for thirteen was the pick of Erratics bowling,
Though Ern and Dunc with thirties kept the battered wagon rolling.
Taking to the field a touch too full of tea,
Could the Mystics win the cup? We'll have to wait and see ...
Graham couldn't play 'em
Till his brother had him caught,
Turner, though no learner
Earned a 21-ball nought.
Lisk avoided risk
But not the diving hand of Dunc,
Cook took a look,
But by Ade his dreams were sunk.
McRae knew how to play,
Retiring hurt at fifty,
And Topping took some stopping,
Though he found Chirps too nifty.
Hinds avoided fines,
But Squire stopped him in his prime,
Burrows often furrows
Brows of bowlers: not this time.
James was playing games,
But still carri-ed his bat.
Pearson got a fierce 'un
From Fraser Chave and that was that.
Said she gave him pleasure:
Not out at the end,
And wearing sandals for good measure.
At 131 for eight, twas not good enough to win.
So it ended honours even, which is how it should have been.
McRae would have been Man of the Match, if such a thing existed,
Four wickets and a fifty: his prowess went unresisted.
And Webb's six straight maidens were a sight to behold,
Though the pitch should still be Napalmed, if I might make so bold.
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