‘Twas early morn, not yet past six,
but the cervine one was ready to eclipse.
In runs scored, in kunt rate measured,
He’d eclipse those in Business, and in Leisure.
Glued to phone with eyes like hawk,
“This horrific run rate doth make one balk”.
The morn goes by, noon arrives,
Time for Bambi to catch his ride.
Off to the ground, as quick as can be,
As you may tell, this is all about Bambi.
He turns up, it’s hot as balls,
Snubs a beer for the warm-up call.
Ready to rock, ready to roll,
He hears from the skipper that the Bashers will bowl.
What’s the target? What is the goal?
Restrict to 69 on a 10-wicket stroll.
Bambi gets loose with a stretch and a grunt,
But skipper gives the ball to some other kunt.
Bambi’s not opening, what’s going on,
Give Bambi the ball and let him sing his song.
Five overs down, he gets the call up,
First ball wide and he’s fucked it all up.
Doesn’t make sense, ball must be broken,
A newer one would have fetched a gratitude token.
Four off the over, could be worse,
And next for six, yikes, that hurts.
Third over comes, three balls three chances,
All reach the ground, afar from outstretched handsies.
No wickets for Bambi, but in news less shit:
One catch, two run outs; one a direct hit.
78 to chase, Coronas on ice,
A batting break for Bambi, that’ll be nice.
Let the others have a knock, an easy chase,
Only those kunts can’t keep up with the pace.
A few wickets fall, the Bat signal shines,
The Bashers are cheering, it’s Bambi time.
Two posh-side fours and a few swings and misses,
Game over Pudong, as Bambi reminisces.
Next week is the final, a rather big fuss,
And Bambi will be there, so get on that bus!