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Poetry Pleases: Pontifikayshun

Sandra Mills sends this chuckle-filled Yorkshire dialect poem from Sydney, Australia.

T'were nobbut just t' week past
That 'issen, nunuther than t' Pope
Declared that t' washin' mashyn
'ad liberayted womenfolk.

Well, Ah were capped ana tad miffed
Fer, 'pon mi oath, Ah swear 'e nivver
Took t' trouble, nor time aht ter confer
Wit' frazzeled muther o' a cricketer.

Fer 'ere Ah stand at basin an' tow fer ahrs
Scrubbin' cricket clooas, mi fingers all wi blebs
Mi 'ands raw, soo dry an' cracked
Jus lahk them Kala 'ari riverbeds.

Ah'm sluffed wi ahl t' mud an' grass stains
Sumtimes t' britches con sooak fer weeks
T'wurst is t' red ball marks rubt on t' 'groin
By gaw, Ah shall peg aht wit t' smell o' bleeach.

Mi son reckons Frahday 'e laiked silly-mid-on 'n tooka catch
Cos Ah weren't thar Ah'll 'ave regrets.
Ah reckon, fra t' state o' 'is clooas 'e were laikin'
silly-little-bugger in't coo kak beyund nets.

Gentlemen o' t' cricket world, pray tell me this
Why can't cricketers 'ave clooas o' a different hue?
It dun't tek a man pontifikaytin o'er is crucifix
Ter tell us what onny muther alredy naws
Lads an' white jus plaain dooan mix.

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