THE MAN FROM PIETERMARITZBURG (Jonty Rhodes was born there too)

(With apologies to Banjo Patterson)

There was panic in the dressing room, for the word had passed around
      That the wheels had fallen off the juggernaut and rolled away,
Pietersen had joined the Pommies — he was worth ten thousand pound,
      So all the spectators had gathered to watch this special day.
All the tried and noted bowlers from the convicts near and far
      Had mustered in the pavilion overnight,
For the Aussies love hard bowling and they try to scare and fright ,
      And the ex South African loves the battle with delight.

There was McGrath , who made his name when Pharlap won the cup,
      This old man whose hair could do with a “wash and blow”;
He always bowls like mad when his blood is fairly up —
   Though  he’s not so fast as Lee or Taite he always has a go .
And then Shane Warne came on to lend a helping hand,
      No more dedicated bowler ever held that nice red ball;
Few batsmen could play his wrong one when he bowled it straight and true
      And the Poms began to worry when the wickets began to fall

But one batsman was there , a stripling who could do with a good feast,
      He was something like Charles Atlas undersized,
With a touch of Afrikaner— three parts thoroughbred at least —
      And such men by cricket lovers are so prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
      There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of greatness in his bright and fiery eye,
      And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so young and cocky , one would doubt his power to stay,
      And the old men said, ‘That player will never do
For a long and tiring test innings — lad, you’d better stop away,
      Those matches are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited sad and wistful — only Vaughan stood by his friend —
      ‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;
‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
      For both his bat and he are cricket bred.

When he reached the Oval wicket , Pietersen’s heart was pumping full,
      It well might even make the boldest hold their breath,
The bouncers came through quick and hard , and the hidden ground was full
      Of bowlers foot holes, and any mistake was certain death.
But the man from Pietermaritzburg had aggression in his head,
      And he swung his bat round and gave a cheer,
And he raced up to a hundred like a torrent down its bed,
      While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the red ball flying, and his team mates prayed for peace,
      He cleared the boundary ropes so many times
And the man from Pietermaritzburg never shifted from his crease —
      It was grand to see that batsman in his prime .
Through the offside and the leg side and all around the ground,
      Spectators sang and cheered at a racing pace he went;
And he never stopped his slogging until MaGrath had him clean bowled,
     And the ground stood up as one and clapped this one so bold .

And in the members pavilion at the Oval , they drink beer and sing the praise
    Of this exiting lad from far across the seas
And the beer is clear and warm , and the white stars fairly blaze
      At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Serpentine the reed beds sweep and sway
      To the breezes, and the roads are nice and wide ,
The man from Pietermaritzburg is a household word to-day,
      And the cricketers tell the story of his innings.

By Eddie the Pom