With arrows come the bowing hordes,
To trample on our hallowed Lord's.
Olympics, natch, they now hold sway,
Yet cricket is not kept at bay.
Our game, is love, is ever finer,
Golden blade from Suresh Raina,
Fluid dreams from Neil McKenzie,
Rapture in a Trent Bridge frenzy.
Podiums with metal, solely,
Do not feature Virat Kohli,
Gold and Silver, Bronze avail,
Yet devoid are they of Chris Gayle.
A truth, a death, a hope arcane,
Now linger in the face of Kane.
In London, minnows spin the rings,
So joyous, are these underlings.
Colombo and Antigua hold,
A glory of a willow world.
A fatalistic jawline Sharma,
Apes the sadness of Bopara.
Track and field and court and pool,
Athenian, you cheer, enthrall.
Diminutive, quick wrists, our seeds,
Will flowers, tailored, bloom in Leeds?