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