Howzat!

In Competition No. 2903 you were invited to supply a poem incorporating a dozen cricketing terms. English poets love cricket: Housman, Betjeman, Chesterton and Sassoon all wrote about the game. And then, of course, there is Harold Pinter, who encapsulated it so beautifully in two lines:

I saw Len Hutton in his prime,
Another time, another time.

 
I admired P.C. Parrish’s clever poem in the opaque modernist style of Edith Sitwell. Tim Raikes, Peter Goulding, Nick Hodgson and Rosemary Kirk also stood out in a large and impressive field. The winners earn £25 apiece. Brian Allgar takes £30.

My wife reminds me of a game of cricket:
A splendid sport, but hard to comprehend.
I often feel I’m on a sticky wicket —
Caught out, or stumped, or driven round the bend.
 
And when she starts to eye the heavy roller,
Or pads towards the dreaded daisy-cutter,
I know it’s time to grab my coat and bowler;
‘Must just run out to buy some fags,’ I mutter.
 
The day we met, she truly bowled me over,
Eyelashes batting, tempting me to sin.
I made my pitch; she acquiesced; I drove her
To find a featherbed and bang it in.
 
My long-legged love declares that I’m her third man,
All three of us — a silly point — called ‘Patrick’,
And though she sometimes finds me an absurd man,
She says it’s thanks to me she scored her hat-trick.
Brian Allgar
 
Harry was a villain and a very crafty crook
Whose henchman, Basher, wasn’t bright (he’d never read a book)
But, being rough, could pack a punch and knock a fellow out,
Hence Harry found him helpful as a fit and fearsome lout.
 
Now Donna was a dolly and the love of Harry’s life,
He promised her the world if she’d agree to be his wife,
And Donna said she’d gladly wed as long as he agreed
To rob a bank and furnish her with all she’d ever need.