I remember Pat Tetley and romping in grass
That was tall at the back of the cricket field
Trying to catch glimpses of knickers and ass
While over the fence they yelled ooed and roared
As Ramadhin, Weekes and Frank Worrell all scored
I was just a bit young for my own wicked way
And ended up autograph hunting a prey
The like of which I'd never seen before
A different world I suddenly saw and more
They were big and so dark so alive and so fit
Mysterious black men with sparkling smiles
And white kit
They inspired me a bit
I remember John Lever stood down deep fine leg in my way
Trying to see round him while trying to fathom
What England were doing and then being fixed
By the sight of his socks
They were grey and quite holey and so were his boots
What was this? I tought laughing they could have grown roots
They'd look white on the box
But there in the flesh they weren't even approx
And there was his sweater as yellow as well
It must have been inside the kennel a spell
And with fourt plastic pints swimming blurring the sight
It was then that I realised that even titanium dioxide
Isn't quite white
I remember young Foxy walk out to the crease
With my heart in his mouth
And wafting apiece
Smackin' a few
Punchin' holes in the sightscreen
The Argonaut with the golden fleece
With a blade of new willow outside the off stump
When he was out I was and shared in the fate
I was gutted or sated or just a bit late
On the stroke: What was that? Of the clock?
Ah yes all those memories
Summer and all those great knocks
And Pat Tetley still sending those messages
All of these years
From my brain to my box
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