Missed by PG Woodhouse The sun in the heavens was beaming The breeze bore an order of hay My flannels were spotless and gaming My heart was unclouded and gay The ladies all galey appalled sat round looking on at the match In the treetops the Dickiebirds caroled All was peace till I bungled that catch My attention, the magic of summer had mewred from the game which was wrong The beat that inveterate hunger was droning its favourite song I heard in a stupor the bowler emit a self-satisfied ah The small boys who sat on the roller set up an expectant hurrah The batsman with grief from the wicket himself had begun to detach and I uttered a groan and turned sick It was over, I'd buttered the catch Oh, Nair, if I lived to a million Shall I feel such a terrible pang from the seats on the far off pavilion a loud yell of ecstasy rye Ah! The bowler's low, quarrelous mutter points loud, unforgettable scoff Oh, give me my driver and putter Hence forward my game shall be called If I'm asked to play cricket hereafter I am wholly determined to scratch Life's void of all pleasure and laughter I bungled the easiest catch