Wimbordem

I don't understand that Wimbledon game -
the one that's played by a couple in pain,
They won't ask a person and say "game it's agreed"
they find `em from somewhere and call `em a `seed`

The balls are swiped at a metre high net -
backwards and forwards, causing a crick in the neck.
They grunt and they groan - throw their hands in the air -
run the wrong way, and seem to despair.

They don't play with one ball to build up a score,
there's dozens of `em - all over the floor,
Then a few more, that they stick up their drawers,
while watchers must clap and show their applause.

The tally is kept - not just one two three,
but love and deuce and advantage to me.
Then they go swatting with bat thing in hand,
while holding their hair back with a large `lastic band,

A ball hits the line with a slight puff of dust,
then one of the players goes mad in disgust.
The chap named the umpire sits on a high stool,
he sticks up a finger when there's a break in the rule.

Then he shouts something like "game match and set",
so they sit down with towels and stare at the net.
Ladies that play, go flashing their knickers,
and that brings a blush to the broad minded vicars.

There's strawberries galore, at ten pounds a punnet -
it`s blatant extortion by the gangsters that run it.
I wouldn't watch this game for minutes on end,
the antics would send me right round the bend.

So you schoolkids and housewives, and Royal box toff,
don't bother going - I've heard it's rained off.

Copyright; Joe Earl
Email: jearl28107@aol.com