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Title: The Catch Of The Season
Author: Norman Gale [
More Titles by Gale]
He was a person most unkempt,
And answered to the name of Cust.
He had a frenzied mass of hair,
A little redder than red rust,
And trousers so exceeding short
It looked as if by mounting high
They meant unceasingly to try
To change to knickers on the sly.
He was a person whom a Bat
Could view without the least distrust.
He caught me at the fifth attempt--
Imagine my profound disgust!
For if the ball had gone to hand
I had not felt the least unrest;
But, as it happened (Fate knows best!)
It struck him smartly on the chest.
I cannot tell you how he squirmed
And capered on the greensward there,
Until at last he took the ball
(Or so it seemed) from out his hair,
And meekly rubbed the coming bruise.
Thus was I humbled in the dust
Because of Albert Edward Cust.
Imagine my profound disgust!
Here's to the freckles and fielding and fun,
Here's to the joy that we ponder;
Here's to the Game that will glow in the sun
When the babes of our babies are--Yonder!
[The end]
Norman Gale's poem: Catch Of The Season
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