"warne" poems
this time, when i went
to meet Death at his place,
he showed signs of weakness.
he was watching a cricket match
relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.
yawns kept rolling
in slow progression
towards the boundary.
'are you well?’ i ventured.
'nothing wrong,’ said he.
stammering, i quizzed him:
which one do you fear most?
allopathy, ayurveda, or
homeopathy?
dear wilson,
have you observed sachin
facing the ***** of shane warne?
brian lara, wasim akram?
chris gail, brett lee?
i was thrown into confusion.
death admitted, unwillingly,
that like vivian richards
confronted narendra hirwani,
he was laid low by the
secret herb
of an old tribal man!
aaha! the panacea
became then
a spin ball!
(aaha…Nothing official about it!)
i forgot to ask
how our people
smuggled away by him
were faring now.
he forgot to comment
“you will see for yourself
when you face it.”
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
eight wickets
eight wickets
he did so well score
on the pitch at Bangalore
he spun the ball
he spun the ball
in the first session of play
over after over toiling away
his efforts were fab
his efforts were fab
bamboozling the batsmen
with a seaming flight of hem
not since Warne
not since Warne
had such a display been seen
on the oval's twenty two yard sheen
a magic spell
a magic spell
Lyon's spinning technique
was truly magnifique
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Gatt wishes he'd never been born,
Says his brain is the size of a prawn,
You know the old spinner,
But he ain't much thinner,
That ****** Aussie is Shame Warne.
He can bowl a big turning ripper,
Then fool you with his quick flipper,
While he comments on sky,
And eats one more steak pie,
Before you're done up like a kipper.
Even with the bat he's not bad,
Drives the opposition quite mad,
He could captain them too,
More than Ponting's IQ,
But he's gone and us Poms are just glad.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 12:49 AM UTC
It was good to have Lumb in the side,
South African birthright aside!
Though we must be fair,
Shane Warne got him there,
He smashed all the bowlers with pride.
Our bowlers used plenty of thought,
Even Broad who often dropped short,
He did it with style,
And showed us his guile,
And everything hit up was well caught.
The Aussies expected to chin us,
They didn't think we had it within us
In that final meeting
We gave them a beating.
England the T-20 Winners.
We made them look like beginners,
Or old forgotten dog's dinners,
The Aussies got thrashed,
Their bowling was smashed.
England are T-20 winners!
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 12:01 AM UTC
Kennedy’s dead, Warne said.
Cole couldn’t comprehend.
The President? Jack you mean?
Things seemed simple then.
Now he knew the dark truth
Of how things fell into place.
Warne had lied about the facts,
Distorted matters; brought in
The Oswald myth and kept it
Going. Cole sips his *****
Looks across the city, wonders
How it will all pan out in the
End, whether truth will out.
The girl enters the room and
Sits beside him; half dressed
In simple reds, some foreign
Chick he'd picked up some weeks
Back, feeling lonely. She kisses
His cheek; simple thing kissing.
Something not there though;
Something missing. Kennedy’s
Dead, Warne had said. Cole
Remembers seeing that other
Photograph of Jack’s head part
Blown away. He sips his drink,
Feels the girl’s lips, wet and
Warm, remembers, forgets,
The Oswald myth, the lone
Shooter, blood on Jackie’s
Coat. The girl licks his ear,
Snakelike, worming the wet
Pointed end, another orifice
To explore. Jack’s gone; head
Blown apart; Warne passed
Away some years back, ******
Up heart. Cole sighs, the girl
Moves away, the ear wet with
Spittle; nothing matters now,
He muses darkly, or very little.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC