In Praise of Blenkinsop


Here was a man who played bad cricket.
Bowled short wides, ne’er took a wicket.
Dropped slip catches, always a ‘duck’
Never an ‘eye’ so he trusted luck.

Now his playing days are gone,
Struck by a drive at Silly Mid On,
Caught it with his senseless head,
And fell upon the pitch- Quite dead!

Blenkinsop’s life had come to an end.
He left directions in care of a friend,
Long and involved , but the basis of which-
“To be buried at ‘Lords’ in the centre of pitch.
To be lowered by men, all of whom shall love cricket,
So that I can assist to grow grass on the wicket”

Very English Michael with reminders of our local Queens Park in Town that hosts many a game !! of leather on willow.

I just thought, I have never known anybody called Blenkinsop!

Quirky little poem though!