The Sydney Cricket Ground

Such a verdant, hallowed turf, history in its prime.
You watch agog with bated breath, the sweet passage of time.
Don, the little master, hits with grace and flair.
Never doubt his panache, so utterly debonair.
Established in 1848, a symbol of days gone by.
Yearly battles against the foe, we clap, and shriek, or sigh.

Charlie McCartney’s century, a colossus amongst men.
Riveting as a batsman, a spinner now and then.
India a worthy foe, Clarkey has a sense of fun.
Cover drive, hook, or cut; yes it’s a triple ton!
Kids watch with mouths agape; test cricket’s still alive.
Etched in our minds a glorious shot, or a desperate full-length dive.
Tests in 1933, Bodyline in its prime.

Gubby Allen despised it; such a heinous crime!
Richie with the silver tongue, last test in ’64.
Oh so much talent personified – who could ask for more?
Under the cerulean heavens, a tableau that’s so fine.
No ground can match you Sydney, to me you are divine!
Drink in the glory of cricket, for generations down the line.