Oh how the Aussies Laugh
And even the Irish snigger into their Guinness.
For once again we are cast low
Even unto scrapping for last place with Afghanistan.
Tell it not in Adeleide
Publish it not in Melbourne.
All day long the Aussies put on their sun block
And make their mouths wide to drink their taste-free yellow beer.
Fair dinkum! They shout. It is like unto the days of Shane
Or even the Don.
Consider the Lillee of the field.
He used to thrash us Poms as well.
If it were the Aussies, or the Windies in their prime -
When Whispering Death swept o'er the grass
And Joel Garner rained down thunder from on high -
Then we could have understood it.
But this is too hard for us.
We have been skittled by the quickies of Bangladesh.
Our pace men have been blunted
And our captain has thrown away his wicket like the Assyrians threw away their armour before the Babylonians.
And so we shall raise a lament
And let our tears flow like the Murray, Darling.
And we shall wail that we got rid of KP
And forget that he was an unreliable preening child.
And sack the coach
And the manager
And the selectors
And the ECB board.
We shall demand a reform, both of root and branch.
And we shall build for the future.
And in four years
We shall do it all again.