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So hordes of fifty something men,
Unwrap their England shirts again,
Which last were worn some years back when,
Their balding sons were less than ten.

More smear factor thirty on,
With quarter of an hour’s sun,
West Indies now 13 for one,
And Craig Brathwaite already gone.

And always the same faces here,
Same seats same shirts for year on year,
They sip on warming Kentish beer,
And when a wicket falls they cheer.

And in the stands where corks are popped,
And glasses of Prosecco dropped,
The drinking’s only ever stopped,
To glance up when the ball is whopped.

So Kent and the West Indies play,
A slow, enthralling, hot first day,
In that familiar tour match way,
The morning slowly ebbs away.

A man resplendent in Kent tie,
Accosts his wife as she walks by,
He smiles and when she asks him why,
Its lunch.

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