With Apologies to Mr Austen Tayshus



I’m watching the Ashes at the GABA

on my plasma screen TV

sipping my spirit tonic


I hear a murmur go round the crowd

“It’s Bili Rubin!”

the joule of the Aussie team

appears from the dugout

waving his bat about

and wearing the Baggy Green

“Bili, sinus atrophy!” the fans yell out


the bowler, a bald chap

chants with chin music

he bends to collect his ball

and slowly straightening, eyeballs the batsman;

strapping both wrists

he casts a cursory glance at the pitch


Bili stands at the crease

confidently swinging his holistic

all the while raising the temperature

always needling the challenger

“Bolus a Sixer!”

we hear him caul out


there’s hypertension as the foe approaches and finally

pitches an arm ball chest on

the orb shunts onto the sticky wicket biting into a depression on the earth like a

bypassing creeping eruption! 


It was twilight when Bili

took delivery of the bouncer

too late to make a cut

for it hit a blind spot

frantically, he jerked his head and duct

I watched the face lift, and him go cocci

seeing spots before the eyes


What a nightmare!

the pavilion panics; in shock

the batsman goes mental and starts to salk

bowler blows him the kiss of life

before he retires for today


Ah, such action-packed days

the cricket proves a thrill

me ending up with

port wine stain on my t-shirt

and me TV mate consoling,

“pore another, and munch on a piNeal.”




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