A poem for the Proteas by Andy Gilder.
I hate the way you make me cringe,
The way you make me smile;
I hate that when the total's small,
Jacques always takes a while;
I hate that Graeme scores his lot
Through wide mid on and cow,
But more than that I hate it:
Without him we'd be out by now.
I hate it when Malinga slings,
When Murali turns it square,
But more than that I hate it
When the middle order's bare.
I hate that we left Boeta home,
That Johan couldn't make the grade;
I hate that Loots just watches games,
That Roger's getting paid
I hate that Hayden is in form,
That Ponting's the best by a mile,
But more than that, I hate Andrew Symonds
His arms, his bat and his hair style
I hate it that they target Polly,
That he has developed a bald spot because of it;
Without him we're a legend short
Who will bowl that Gilchrist git?
I love each member of the squad,
Even Goolam (who looks like Yoda),
But if you pull that stunt again,
I'll be dead before it's over...