Just imagine this, an Aussie summer
The beer is cold and the days a bummer
The sun is shining, can’t believe our luck

But the scorebook shows we’re in the muck

Opener still in but 8 wickets gone

But a silly stroke and out goes Ron

5 balls to go, it can’t be worse

We know who’s last and start to curse

Oh my God the last man’s in
It’s our local vicar poor old Jim
He’s weak and feeble, rather thin
Six runs needed, how can we win

Bowler is a brute called Fred
Who is every batsman’s fear and dread
Who has this idea in his big head
Just get them out or leave them dead.

A long run up, must be a mile
In the pavilion opposition smile
Poor Jim tries to look defiant

But it’s poor old David against the giant

The next 4 balls go past like rockets

Jim’s eyes pop right out their sockets

Fred prepares to bowl last ball

We’re hoping for a “no ball” call

Around the green a cracking sound
With his eyes shut and courage found
Although no faith from all around
Jim hits the last ball down the ground.

It flies through the air, the crowd are tense
As it’s heading for the boundary fence
Jim’s team mates pray for a bit more height
As projected arc makes it look tight

But earnest prayer turns to elation

As the ball regains some elevation

That small red ball hits top of picket

A win to us, last ball last wicket

All summer Jim’s faiths been at zero

And now he’s gone right up to hero

His mind is thinking above the roar

I SHOULD BE BATTING NUMBER 4