In the Country
Wisden v Wigeon
Here is my neck, and out I stick it
To claim that fowling isn't cricket.
The gunner, prone in frozen muck,
Is happy if he gets a duck.
Lines For A Clay Pigeon
If you were formed to face my Purdey,
You chalk-and-pitch constructed birdie,
Then may your flight indeed be fleeting,
Journey's end in leaden meeting!
But if your doom's to soar for Barry,
Or Bob, Tom, Dick, or even Harry,
Why perish to improve their standings?
Fly on, my lad, and happy landings!
I asked him if he'd got a bite . . .
His answer can't be written.
But, as he scratched away all night
I can say he got bitten.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear them.