The Rubaiyat of the Listener

Awake!  This yawning indicates a plight
That tells too plainly of a wakeful night
   For lo the lure of cricket at the hearth,
Until the morning milkman, held us tight.

Indeed, indeed, repentance oft before
We swore, but it was daylight when we swore
   And tho' we shiver by the wireless et,
How could we leaving it knowing not the score?

'Tis all a chequer board of nights and days:
Night here, day there, where now our Test team plays.
   So set the speaker by the winter fire
And who cares what the scornful housewife says?

The cricket hope men set their hearts upon
Wins ashes -- or it doesn't, and anon
   When stumps at last are drawn we'll sneak away
To bed, where hours ago we should have gone.

How long, how long in infinite pursuit
Of that swift sphere that cricketers dispute
   Our fellows raced 'till it was Sunday here
And still we sat and ate the bitter fruit.

But tune her up.  What boots it to repeat
Tales of tired fieldsmen, poised on flying feet?
   Tonight's the night, and if our batsmen stay
Joy ere morrow's dawn may be complete.

Woodfull indeed is out and with him Don
But Brown, MacCabe remain to carry on
   Then Darling, Chipperfield -- who knows what score
May brings us gladness ere this night be gone?

And if the knob you turn, the switch you press
Bring tales of triumph or of dire distress
   The end of all who listen is the same
Cold feet, fat head and utter weariness.