Old Timer Rhymer Poet Rhyme

World's number one and two in batting's Who's Who

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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