The toss is a loss from the very beginning
It’s usually the opposing captain who comes back grinning
Another high target we have to meet
Having been subjected to Arabian levels of heat
Even our very own Jeff is oft out of breath
Bowling over after over from a shorter length
Energised batsmen we have in abundance
Regularly finding themselves in redundance
Pummelled fielders recovering six hit balls from up yonder
Wearisome Owen moaning “I can’t bowl much longer”
Tired and jaided we emerge for the chasing
But back to the pavilion our batsmen come racing
In the cold showers we wipe off our tears
Our dreams of making centuries soothed only by beers
And then the oppo jest that Stage are no longer a force with which to be reckoned
To which I say, “because we always bat f**king second !”