Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, sad and teary,
Of the many quaint and curious losses on the Australian shore,
While I brooded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the stadium door.
"'Tis some urchin," I muttered, "tapping at the stadium door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped the godlike Eleven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made they; not a minute stopped or stayed
they; But, looking straight ahead they filed through the stadium door-
heading for the bald rectangle, in the center of the grassy floor-
They glanced at me, and nothing more.

Then I this stony crew pursuing found myself at the pitch a-musing,
Upon the grave and stern decorum of the countenance they wore.
"Though thy sheen be worn and faded, you," I said, "were not so jaded,
Ghastly grim and sad Eleven sneaking through the Stadium door-
Tell me what in lord's name happened on the Australian shore!"
Quoth the Eleven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled at this out-of-tune bunch to hear them chorus,
Though their answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For neither in Chennai nor Chandigarh, any other stadium caretaker
Ever yet was blest with seeing a team at the stadium door-
Fans yes, but no team at midnight was ever seen at a stadium door
Saying as one, "Nevermore."

But the Eleven, standing stubbornly, on the pitch, spoke only
That one word, as if their souls in that one word they did outpour.
Nothing further then they uttered- not a sleeve then they fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other teams have flown before-
In some years a team will fly, fly Down Under, on a tour."
Then the team said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so abruptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what they utter is from shock, nothing more,
Caught from their little master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till team meetings one burden bore-
Till all conferences on the pitch that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

Thus I stood appealing, but no word nor sign in reply receiving
From the team whose blurry eyes now gazed into the pitch's core;
If the babes in the stands, distracted from the task at hand
With bosoms bouncing as their owners leapt at every four?
Bosoms, clad but barely, whose owners leap at every four,
Would be hard, um, to ignore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Kapil whose footfalls thudded on the tufted floor.
"Coach," I cried, "thy board did send thee- with high hopes did it send thee
That you would repeat the glories of eighty three or was it four
(the memory escapes me, it all happened so long before)"
Quoth the Eleven, "Nevermore."

"Eleven!" said I, "no less nor more- Eleven! From a hundred crore!
Were the umpires bent, or did they cheat to make balls swing more,
Soundly beaten yet undaunted, on this lifeless pitch enchanted-
On this land by losses haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Was it- was it the food in Sydney?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Eleven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word thy only greeting, men or mice," I shrieked, retreating-
"Got thee back into thy backyard and the pitches you adore!
Left sound bytes as a token of that lie thy bats have spoken!
Left thy losing run unbroken!- and sneaked in by the back door!
To put thy name on every cola, and thy poster in every store!"
Quoth the Eleven, "That's for sure."

And the Eleven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid pitch of Wankhede just within the Indian shore;
And their eyes have all the seeming of an Eleven that is dreaming,
Of all the teams with them meeting who will get a beating as before;
But my soul from out that shadow that lies upon the Australian shore
Shall be lifted- nevermore!