It’s summer. Spare a thought for all those defenceless spheroidal projectiles now being subjected to violence on tables, courts, pitches, fairgrounds, links, greens and gardens all over the land. There ought to be a Royal Society for the Protection of Balls . . .
It’s just horrible being a ball.
If we’re not being thrown at a wall,
You are bashing us, thrashing us,
Bowling or rolling us.
Does nobody love us at all?
You just don’t understand how we feel:
When you launch us with fervour and zeal
At coconut shies
To knock off a prize,
We end up unconscious. Big deal!
In tennis, our prospects are cursed
By directions abruptly reversed
As we’re volleyed and served,
Spun, top-sliced and curved
’Til our casings are ready to burst.
We’re all battered and bruised, thanks to you.
Struck with football boot, golf club or cue,
We end up in goals,
Bounced off cushions, down holes;
We are punished whatever we do.
We give notice: we simply won’t stick it.
We detest being thrown at a wicket,
And what’s more, we abhor
Being driven for four.
Look here, chaps, it’s simply not cricket!