Laaltain

“Mitchell-Angelo”

9 فروری، 2016

(This is a trib­ute to the Aus­tralian fast bowler Mitchell John­son, who just announced his retire­ment from inter­na­tion­al crick­et.)

Behold! The car­nage is here to anni­hi­late,
Behold! A grenade in my left hand,
Behold! The ammo is fatal,
Behold! It’s about to explode,
Here runs the south­paw,
The ulti­mate out­law,
With the viril­i­ty of a stal­lion
He runs with a ball in hand,
It will fly off your skull,
It will kiss your neck.
Beware of this kiss!
It will leave bruis­es and lumps,
Save your wrists, your face,
For I gift hair­line frac­tures,
And X‑Ray reports to my beloved,
So duck hard, plunge.
The Kook­abur­ra is all lit up,
Its flames will melt your pride to ash­es,
As it did in The Ash­es,
Beware! The big­ger the mous­tache, the swifter the flow,
The soon­er you come, the faster you’ll go,
My bounc­ers will deliv­er bal­let danc­ing lessons too,
You’ll jump, twist, bow in your white cos­tume,
And why shouldn’t they bounce,
When a kan­ga­roo is to bounce,
I abhor the erect­ed stumps behind you,
My occa­sion­al “fuller one” will make your fur­ni­ture grov­el,
I’m a mae­stro at this art of “Mitch­craft”,
But I draw humil­i­at­ed, solemn faces,
They call me “Mitchell-Ange­lo”,
It’ll come down on you as a bliz­zard over a peak,
Your wand is use­less, throw it away,
You want to spot the ball?
It’s in keeper’s gloves before you blink,
You won’t walk away with a shin­ing armor,
I’ll leave my foot­steps on it,
I won’t leave any stone unturned,
I’m good with that dis­patch­ing stick too; the bat,
I know how to mus­cle it 100metres away on mid-on,
My teas­ing down-the-order knocks are an absolute agi­ta­tion for you,
I inher­it­ed Lille, Thomp­son and Lee,
The tril­o­gy of Franken­stein,
It’s been ages since we’re in this killing busi­ness,
It’s a glo­ri­ous lega­cy of out­smart­ing,
Mak­ing an absolute idiot of our adver­sary,
And I’m suc­ceed­ed by a stark star called Starc,
The lega­cy is in safe hands,
Hands that com­pelled me,
To leave the throne with full esteem,
For once you’ve con­quered all,
There remains noth­ing,
Here leaves Mitchell “The Mafia” John­son…

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