India’s not playing too well,
Defeat has a sour smell,
Tired bowlers can take no wickets,
Flashy bats keep punching their tickets,
Blame it all on the IPL.

Among the ruins, standing tall,
Is the man we call The Wall,
Dravid, recalled to the one-days,
For the BCCI may as well say,
“The others can’t get bat on ball.”

Once upon a time, India won the Cup,
But Dhoni’s graph went up and up,
Now fickle fans want his head,
Wanted alive, not dead,
Sometimes you just run our of luck.

Harbie can’t spin the ball,
No it doesn’t turn, not at all,
The Turbinator’s had to be dropped,
If the Poms had to be stopped,
Oh, how the mighty fall!

Tendulkar wants a ton,
But can’t get on a run,
The 100th 100 seems far away,
As he seems to have lost his way,
Sometimes cricket can be no fun.

India once ruled the world,
Now Number One is blurred,
Battered and bruised,
Seemingly out of juice,
Lost in a world of hurt.

Held together with Band-aid,
The Indians have massively laid
An egg in every match,
So we can only watch
The hard-won luster fade.

Fooled by swing and pace,
It’s such a disgrace,
To see them wince at the bounce,
As the English speedsters flounce,
And keep getting in their face.

There’s rioting going on,
By a hooligan throng,
Made up of the poor and the rich,
Some of it’s even off the pitch,
Where India keeps getting it wrong.

Sehwag was to save the team,
That was the pipe dream,
That was the psychological boast,
But India’s still very much toast,
While England gets the cream.

Broad, Tremlett, et al, did simper,
India’s limp, we’ll make it limper,
“We’ll show ‘em”, Indians thundered,
Before the team meekly surrendered,
Without a bang, but a whimper.