THE TALE OF PETER THE CUSTARDLY MATCH REPORTER
Or
You Were Warned Peter!
Peter lived in a little brick house,
With two fiery daughters and a little green chameleon,
And a big white dog and a little blue camper wagon,
And a realio, trulio, tame Welsh dragon.
Now the name of the white dog was Luna,
And the two fiery daughters we’ll call them Una and Duna
And the tall blonde dragon was sharp as Mustard,
But Peter was flake, so we’ll call him Custard.
Custard the would-be match reporter had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a sewer, and a suction pump for a nose,
And realio, trulio, tattooed daggers on his toes.
The Dragon was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Una and Duna chased triathletes down the stairs,
Luna was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard just cried for a well-stocked cage.
The Dragon tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Una, Duna and Luna, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in their little red campervan
At the realio, trulio, cowardly reporter man.
The Dragon laughed till she shook the house up,
And Luna said Woof!, which is giggling for a pup,
Una and Duna rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice stocked cage.
Now Custard had a passion
A sport oft considered out of fashion
Cricket was its name
And playing for anyone was Custard’s game
Came the night in question
Excelsior Batters were out to make an impression
Riding Mill the chosen venue
And Mallards were on the menu
The toss was won, the choice was made
Mallards to bat and show them what’s at
Kent and Ankush were first at the crease
Soon retiring after making 25 apiece
Up next came Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at Excelsior attack like a robin at a worm.
Swinging to the left, swinging to the right
It all came to nought for the only duck of the night
Excelsior sensing a collapse rotated through their bowling attack,
But Hamid was well up to the job of holding them back
Nurdling to the left, nurdling to the right
Another retirement on 25 was soon in sight
With Hall and Holland seeing the innings safely to the close
124 for just the loss of Custard – a respectable gross
Suddenly, suddenly was heard a nasty sound,
As all the Mallards looked around.
Meowch! cried Liaquat, and Ooh! Ankush peeled,
For Custard had started marshalling his field
Undeterred Mexter bowled with no sense of fraught
Calmly bagging a brace, one bowled, one caught.
Browne under captain’s orders tried to run amuck
But despite best endeavours had no luck
Next up the Latif twins to deliver some derring-do
Newcomer Tony bagging a further two
As overs ticked down the run-rate crept higher
Victory for Mallards must surely be surefire
Custard seeking to reverse his earlier luck
Bowled tidily at the death i.e. didn’t suck
And as the score reached ninety nine
For Excelsior it was also the end of the line
At the end of match The Dragon embraced him, Luna licked him,
No one dared mention him being the only victim
Though Una and Duna in glee did gyrate
Around Custard just making him more irate
Victory by twenty five, a comfortable win
And off the teams piled to the local Inn
Being Mallards that must surely have meant
Beer and food to celebrate the event
Now this whole tale has been relayed second-hand
With only a scorebook on which to expand
Yet who needs detail to embellish story
When a humble ode is enough to relay the glory?
Now Peter still lives in his red brick house,
With his two fiery daughters and little green chameleon,
And a big white dog and a little blue camper wagon,
And yes a realio, trulio, tame Welsh dragon.
The Dragon’s as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Una and Duna still chase triathletes down the stairs,
Luna is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard still cries for his well-stocked cage.
Very loosely based on a poem by Ogden Nash (Apologies to Mr Nash, his descendants and Vogon’s everywhere and to fellow Mallards for this blatant bid for an end of season trophy)