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Title: Doctor Cricket
Author: Norman Gale [
More Titles by Gale]
Dear Tom, I do not like your look,
Your brows are (see the poets) bent;
You're biting hard on Tedium's hook,
You're jaundiced, crumpled, footled, spent.
What's worse, so mischievous your state
You have no pluck to try and trick it.
Here! Cram this cap upon your pate
And come with me to Doctor Cricket!
Don't eye decanters on the shelf.
Your tongue's already thick with fur!
Up, heart! and be your own dear self
As when we chummed at Winchester.
Destroy these pasteboard dancing girls;
This theatre-bubble, come, Tom, prick it!
Love more the off and leg-break curls
Arranged for us by Doctor Cricket!
You feel worn out at twenty-two?
Your day's a thing of thirst and gloom?
Old chap, of course I'll see you through,
But--drop that rot about the tomb!
Let's overhaul your bag. A pair
Of noble bats to guard a wicket!
Out, Friend, to breathe the sunny air,
And wring the hand of Doctor Cricket!
Be healed; and shun the flabby gang
That tricked your taste with cards and drink,
When out of independence sprang
A silly downfall. Think, Tom, think!
While stupid lads debase their worth
In feather-headed Folly's thicket,
Get back your muscle and your mirth
Beneath the eye of Doctor Cricket!
[The end]
Norman Gale's poem: Doctor Cricket
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