Rhyming with Rogers – Ashes Fever

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A poem penned in September courtesy of England’s Ashes series triumph over Australia. 

Twenty-Thirteen, an Ashes year

 Of both hype and furore,

Before we even started

There was controversy galore.

Better stick to the facts though,

Well when I choose to at least

Because for one, that DRS system,

Should be very closely policed.

Anyhow, the fun began

At a sunny Nottingham,

Where a local boy was rapped

For the crime that he had done.


The ball refused to turn for Swann

Despite abrasive rough,

Agar soon smashed Finn around,

The match was proving tough.

Then Ian Bell came marching in,

He likes to strut his stuff.

A defiant knock of one-o-nine

Was just about enough.

Erasmus was no humanist

And Aleem Dar no saint,

But Stuart Broad not walking,

Caused furious complaint.


At Lords, the hosts were soon three down,

The Poms played off the park,

Siddle thought he had Bairstow

But overstepped the mark.

England need not have feared though

The Aussie batsmen had no spark,

Scores of one-two-eight and two-three-five

Did not please Michael Clarke.

In England’s second innings,

Rooty came of age

And In doing so, showed the world,

He’s made for the biggest stage.


The Aussies had to win the third

If they should have a hope,

And so called upon Dave Warner

Who’d thrown punches at some bloke.

When the tourists notched 500

The whitewash went up in smoke,

Caught down leg and plumb in front

The skip began to choke.

With England in the mire,

Supporters prayed for rain

And under striped umbrellas,

The Ashes were retained.


Staying put, the target now

An English series win,

But once again, the batting waned,

Ryan Harris wore a grin.

The match took a turn when,

Clarke’s off-peg went tumbling,

Runs dried up, the pressure told

On Smith, Watson, Haddin.

With nine men gone, time stood still

As Siddle looped a ball,

Sprinkler dances, Aussie rued missed chances,

We’d won three out of four.


The Oval was a dour affair

Until the fifth and final day

When the tourists made a game of it

But ‘twas deemed too dark to play.

Either way, the match was drawn

And the home players chose to stay

For a raucous time of urinating,

The evening’s cabaret.

Recover from those hangovers boys

We’ve got it all to do again,

In November, when we cross the seas,

Where we’ll have to bat like men.


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