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The clouds in the heavens were despondent
The air bore a stench of compost
My flannels were soiled and grimy
My heart was sorrowful and frustrated
The ladies, all heavily dressed,
Sat round looking on at ‘the match’,
In the tree tops, the birds chanted
‘You will be the victim of a star-crossed Friday’
My disruption the ill fated Friday
Had enticed me from the game- which was erroneous
The bee (that infuriating chronic hummer)
Was buzzing a chant
‘You will be the victim of a star-crossed Friday’
I was cursing that doomed day
When, ah, horror! There soared through the air an
Unbelievably possible catch
I heard in a stupor the bowler
Emit a self satisfied ‘Ah!’
The little boys who sat on the roller
Set up an expectant ‘Hurrah!’
The batsman with anguish from the wicket
Himself had begun to detach-
And I whimpered and moaned.
My life was over!
I had missed the easiest catch
I became the victim of a star-crossed Friday
O, ne’er, if I live to a million,
Shall I feel such a terrible pang
By the handful my hair
I tore with a wrench from my thatch
And my heart came to a halt
At the contemplation that I had missed that cursed catch
Ah, the bowler’s low, querulous mutter
Points loud, sorrowful day!
Oh, what a grave transgression!
My life is forlorn! My future will be dejected!
There is no reason for my very existence
I became the victim of a star-crossed Friday
I had missed the easiest catch!
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