I’ve been rather involved with other things this week after the promotion Huddersfield Town enjoyed on Monday, so the final two of my Tunbridge Wells poems got rather forgotten. Here they are, starting with (yet) another paean to the vintage wunderman of the year.
Its always Stevens, always him,
Saunters back, then bundles in,
And every ball goes where it should,
And every ball is bloody good,
And Sussex barely swing the wood,
When Stevens does his thing.
Yet Matt Coles at the Railway End,
Is less tight than his older friend,
Still every ball zips in at pace,
Each one, he thinks, will be the ace,
But with that sometimes see the face,
They do not just defend.
So Stevens keeps unerring line,
The older ball now losing shine,
If anything is there, its found,
He presses and he probes around,
And stumps go flying out the ground,
A legend in his time