It is only Chandimal and Thirimanne, they say,
Who are the other kids — as kids — who have made a run?
In its third year, the provincial T-20 fiasco they play,
Yet another form takes — a name — from the former one.
Empty stands, ground boys, sight-screens throb to watch
Four hastily blue-clad teams around a flattened pitch.
Pluses there are, though, the skeptic should take a pause,
The circus is yet not too harsh on near-expired clowns
Like Chamara S, Jehan, Kaushalya who — for some holy cause —
Are still collected and returned to the keeper, on the bounce.
How else are we to see their potting bellies cutely bulge
If in their minor feats selectors didn’t our eyes indulge?
The names of teams which only the blessed Mother of Farce
Could think of, as they were used last year without batting an eye,
Were taken off this year, so were the promised super stars:
The rats who made a deal of it found to bend; to shy.
But the money, where it went, with no address to keep
— As the game is called Cricket — after all, makes the gentle weep.
The camera angles dull, from one end you feel
You’re watching the bowler run in from Straight Long On,
And you try your best — you’re polite — but you can’t conceal,
When the egg-shaped commenter speaks, your deep urge to yawn.
Commentators: the grace of Lanka’s game, surely not a curse,
For they persist in our minds that things can get far worse.