Prologue
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Enquired the Bard, hoping to have his way
With some fair but frosty maid. “Better not,”
Said she, “my desire lies elsewhere, with hot
Actors and their sport, not your feeble quill.”
Thus sorely wronged, our Bard swore vengeance ill
Would befall those men who stole his lover,
And vowed to make the offenders suffer.
Act I
And so it was that Will took up his bat,
Not in lust of making runs but love for that
Which proved far rarer, yet promised joys beyond
All rhyme and reason. So he took his wand
To Ham, where famous actors came to play;
Here, surely, he would score and win the day.
Act II
As if in spite, the golden sun did shine -
A "summer's day" for Will to grieve and pine,
To think on his poetical betrothed
(And how she'd look entirely unclothed).
The pitch was flat, the boundary good and short,
The Skipper won the toss; runs seemed assured.
But Lurpak fell three balls in and Selfish
Was becalmed. The Actors had an Irish
Quick who used his skill to make it seam;
Woe! John the Vice was Shot for seventeen!
Act III
Enter The Bard wielding his ancient quill:
Here was some old school willow and the Will
To make these Actors pay for all that they
Had done to thwart Will's plan to have his way
With Sweet Francine. Once, twice, and thrice he hit
The Thespians fiercely through midwicket;
Then one Dick Whittington entered the scene
To seek his fortune on Ham's illustrious green.
But angry Will took up his axe and walloped
The loopy spinners poor Dick had dolloped
As far as those Bow Bells that sobbed once more:
"Turn again Whittington, three times the Mayor
"Of London!" But, alas, turn it would not
As Tom joined the fray and another fine shot
Showed Actors our batters intended to win;
And puppy-like Tom sang: "I hit the shit bin!"
(Though none were sure if our happy young hound
Had filled that same vessel on reaching the ground.)
In silence, unnoticed all the long while,
Selfish was batting with customary style.
Reaching his fifty with a nod of his head
He planned to bat 'til it was time for bed.
But finally he fell and Giant Jim came in
Calling "FEE, FIE, FO, FUM!" and gnashing his grin.
"I SMELL THY BLOOD!" roared Jim at the bowler
And smote a vast six that killed a poor stroller.
Four more huge blows saw the score near three tons
And the Natti closed happy on 291;
Our am'rous Bard with the score of the day,
Eighty-five runs to soothe love wounds away.
Act IV
The finest of teas was quickly despatched
And a plan for our bowling was hastily hatched.
"Send in the Giant" cried John the vice skipper
So Jim roared in, mashing stumps with a ripper.
The Chairman looped on from the tennis court end
And sent three Actors back to rehearsals again.
Lurpak was robbed of a clear caught behind;
The umpire's excuse: "I'm deaf and half blind!"
Act V
Despite some worthy blows from the batters,
Our star-studded foes fell short where it matters;
The Natti recorded a triumphant win
And Will left us early, a love song to pen...
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