Ah, what a game, twix the mice and the rats,
Some guarded wickets while others wielded bats;
Two umpires were fielded, both myopic cats,
Who cared for the sweaters, and bowler’s peaked hats.
An owl kept all scores, perched on the pavilion,
And dressed in a cloak of the brightest vermilion;
While lost balls were retrieved, at the end of each over,
From the adjoining fields, by a spaniel named Rover.
Refreshments were served to those in the stands
By fourteen tan weasels, all with gloved hands,
Pushing lemonade pitchers, mounted on trolleys,
As spectators cheered loud at each batsman’s volleys.
Yet twix the rising and setting of the sun,
Neither mice nor rats scored one single run;
All were bowled clean, out for a duck,
Which both teams blamed on amateur’s bad luck.
So, in disgust, the spectators formed irate pickets,
While a murder of crows flew off with the wickets.