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HOME OF THE HORNETS.
THE HOME OF CRICKET.
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Heads says Millotty, but he lost the call, the other team bats, we've got the ball.
Darkened leather, with clouded skies, up steps Dunga, to float his pies.
At the great St Johns Park they drop & tease, it's hard to see them in the trees.
The batter waits, he is not sure, whether to hit it for six or four.
But it's a top edge to eager hands, and Dunga does his wicket dance.
A short poem.