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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Yorkshire’s blessed treasure chest best take their Test berth as they surf the crest out on the hallowed turf The self anointed..God’s own country..didn’t rest..hasn’t disappointed..simple ploy Plucky…lucky to be an envoy that still has the joy..zest of a boy The honed treacle toned timbre of their timber toy Well when you’ve researched the top of the queue in batting’s who’s who We already knew..who how do woo the fan..make them coo Can’t be besmirched…the delightful boys we’ve got perched on their rightful pew In full view..the World’s number one and two Even the Red Rose rabble across the Ribble wouldn’t quibble but babble and dribble Love letters scribble to our go getters..appetite whetters..better record setters.. No-one in the Lancs ranks fetters but thanks home grown seeds sown in Yorkshire’s own dibble Almost from birth this pair had the flair..the county knew the girth of their worth Two new heirs with so many graces but no airs These Republic willow aces.. .a swoon boon and bounty And as every Yorkie would pray.. both of those White Rose heroes Spick & span fancydan elan…but can say..”haaway’ man..so down to earth Babbling Brook..the nitro Tyke tyro pyro,dabbling with any cranny and nook The mirth of this gangster…who grew up next to a cricket ground with his granny Never glum..no humdrum doldrum..just handsome hum & yippee spectrum plectrum strum glee Beat our drum for our rum..fulsome “ee bah gum” Fulcrum..zippy whippy hoodlum… fearsome nippy trippy prankster The canny new gaffer against the jaffa… gung ho maverick maestro pick Finally like you and me.. a local brassy spanker not a vocal Saffa..rhymes with Don’t..no won’t do it…like sometimes arsy KP And the record book Rooty rifts…classy tailor…tinkering..tickling..such gifts he plies The way he drifts..shifts his weight…the almost sexy back lift..elite feet swifts skate Under his eyes plays it so late Big grin baby face assassin..our anchor and banker …to boot can anyone moot There ain’t a sweeter..tastier cricketing fruit Let’s pay tribute…to our far from hirsute superstar..timber Tsar Still just a lad so glad to be having a hoot.. as he does scoot and loot Not being cute.. his blade becomes ..his handmade and played magic flute This Republic recruit always a beaut never a brute Dashing…en route to catching Sachin slayed and flayed Poetic tempo and balletic gusto from the get go The doyen of zen and our don, there is only one…Joe Root
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