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Now you’ve done it, you’ve done it haven’t ya?
Yes, you’ve opened up your addled mind
Squelched out a priceless and noxious beauty
A tracer bullet off your copious behind
A mind and behind of opulent plenty - aye we know
Buckling under its glorious Orca gluttony
Bereft of hint of nurturing thought
Numb in pursuit of absolute hegemony
Oh, the remains were still smoldering yet
Painful smoke was still wafting around the WACA
Ere you unclenched your copious cheeks
And deposited a colossal mountain of kaka
Come on home to papa in India you said
Come hither and we’ll cream Aussie arse
Oh, bygone be bygones suckers, you smirked
Like 3-0 was a concocted farce
We’ll smack English behinds too, you squeaked
Collect and usurp unsuspecting Kiwi scalps
And when Australia came knocking at home
You’d go goddamned medieval on their arse
Hell, Melbourne be damned (Adelaide don’t exist)
Excuse me, did Sydney even happen?
Now in Perth, whatever it’s bloody worth
Was there even a result worth a mention?
Marquee this tour had been touted as
Would wipe England’s nightmares off our retina
Alas and alack, it careened shit-side
As the team wore out its erstwhile patina
Yes, you didn’t bat, no, you didn’t bowl
For that we won’t slather you with blame
But do you even care, have a fucking clue
What responsibility comes with your name?
Your primo product just laid a colossal turd
Mind you, one reinforced with India cement
But this is how you choose to ignore it
And belittle that ignominious event?
Dare I ask, do you ever even hurt?
Do you forgo or feign an occasional sigh?
Can anything ever bring you down?
Off your spectacular TV revenue high?
Drunk on your moolah, sauced like a boss
High as a kite on your loaded coffers
You sit barricaded in your shiny fortress
Surrounded by your fawning tossers
Helplessly we look on, in pain we squirm
Glance at you custodians of our game
As you blow even our miniscule expectations
And bring us to our knees in shame
Super King my friend, superman you are
Unlike your team which mislaid its pluck
With your brazen words, and your demented gravitas
You’ve now convinced us you don’t give a fuck
By Sriram Dayanand
who blogs at Boundary Conditions and protects his tweets @sdayanand
Yes, you’ve opened up your addled mind
Squelched out a priceless and noxious beauty
A tracer bullet off your copious behind
A mind and behind of opulent plenty - aye we know
Buckling under its glorious Orca gluttony
Bereft of hint of nurturing thought
Numb in pursuit of absolute hegemony
Oh, the remains were still smoldering yet
Painful smoke was still wafting around the WACA
Ere you unclenched your copious cheeks
And deposited a colossal mountain of kaka
Come on home to papa in India you said
Come hither and we’ll cream Aussie arse
Oh, bygone be bygones suckers, you smirked
Like 3-0 was a concocted farce
We’ll smack English behinds too, you squeaked
Collect and usurp unsuspecting Kiwi scalps
And when Australia came knocking at home
You’d go goddamned medieval on their arse
Hell, Melbourne be damned (Adelaide don’t exist)
Excuse me, did Sydney even happen?
Now in Perth, whatever it’s bloody worth
Was there even a result worth a mention?
Marquee this tour had been touted as
Would wipe England’s nightmares off our retina
Alas and alack, it careened shit-side
As the team wore out its erstwhile patina
Yes, you didn’t bat, no, you didn’t bowl
For that we won’t slather you with blame
But do you even care, have a fucking clue
What responsibility comes with your name?
Your primo product just laid a colossal turd
Mind you, one reinforced with India cement
But this is how you choose to ignore it
And belittle that ignominious event?
Dare I ask, do you ever even hurt?
Do you forgo or feign an occasional sigh?
Can anything ever bring you down?
Off your spectacular TV revenue high?
Drunk on your moolah, sauced like a boss
High as a kite on your loaded coffers
You sit barricaded in your shiny fortress
Surrounded by your fawning tossers
Helplessly we look on, in pain we squirm
Glance at you custodians of our game
As you blow even our miniscule expectations
And bring us to our knees in shame
Super King my friend, superman you are
Unlike your team which mislaid its pluck
With your brazen words, and your demented gravitas
You’ve now convinced us you don’t give a fuck
By Sriram Dayanand
who blogs at Boundary Conditions and protects his tweets @sdayanand
1 comment:
Welcome on Bored, Sriram.
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