This is a slightly cynical poem about cricket, and the slightly childish (to me) hype around Australia day. I don’t think there’s a better place to live than Australia, but I don’t feel much need to emphasise this. I’m sorry that Tandulka didn’t get his hundredth century.
Australia’s day
We sit and watch the cricket on a day when nothing happens
(Advance Australia Fair!)
The great green oval with its scattered figures all in white
its shaded stands filled with those in colour, with flags,
while on the oval strong Australian men throw balls
or whack them to the boundary or past the fence.
The Indian team send out their finest warriors two by two,
their greatest batsman ready to become the master of the century.
He fails again to cheering from the crowd.
(Advance Australia Fair!)
Our national day, and India’s, coincide, but on the pitch
prepared with cunning to benefit the batsmen
there’s no equality, it’s all or nothing as the mighty team
Australia musters bring down their rivals with apparent ease.
The umpires watch to ensure the rules are kept,
which make Australia’s victory a dusty triumph.
(Advance Australia Fair!)
As usual nothing happens, since our side wins as we expect,
their champion defeated in a single combat with our team,
leaving us to with nothing else to do but contemplate the Honours list.
(Advance Australia Where?)
© MM 26,1 2012
