Frome and Yeovil

You feel it coming, see it coming,
Know the little shuffle.

By then the ball is in the air,
You know that you’re in trouble.

For Botham’s not a patient man,
His arsenal is mixed,

It might go flying past your ear,
Or run down past the slips,

Brutal force and chanceless prods,
A clear annihilation,

If not the greatest in the world,
The greatest in the nation,

Two hundred runs from Botham’s bat,
Were flayed around the Oval,

His fan club now includes the world
As well as Frome and Yeovil.

This entry was posted in 1980s, 1982, Cricket, England, India, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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