Cricket

The smell of sun burnt grass,
Feels like it will never last,
The bowler sweating frantically,
To get a wicket gallantly,
The batsman throws bat on ball,
But all his skill maybe called,
For when a devious reverse swinger is bowled,
Throughout all his effort he gets mauled,
By the bowler\'s tremendous competence,
The batsman is no competition,
He walks back to the pavilion,
With his stumps in oblivion.
The fielders slapping backs to congratulate,
The wicket which causes them to congregate.