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Personal Note:

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Poem

It was the best of times for us, we lovers of the game
The field was green and sweetly laid
And you whispered swift wind, storm with silver flame
The red eyed ball silent, and unafraid.

The knights wore white who came to joust, each cause
Against our claim, we had one ball
Without a chain, a free man between the lion's raw paws,
You took the ball, and foes did fall.

Yes, Sir pure in heart, your vote was not to war, but life
Is set by things outside of our choice
The call was made by history, and you forged well its strife
To run up whispering, our Rolls Royce.

The shackle on the human mind in strange symbols hide
You stood long for us without deceit
Your battles were our pride, the lamb fortune did provide
For virtue backed by right has no defeat.

So now the battlefield is cleared, and singers sing no more
I the last trobadour will your homage pay
Great Cricketer among the score, your missile from our shore
Has swept the sense of least away, away.

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