AN ILLUSIVE INNINGS.

These are the adventures of a self centred
Individual in a world full of benevolent druids,
Who,
To their credit,
Never asked for the truth of altruism
To materialise in front of them,
Or be pulled from top hats,
But,
Nevertheless,
Wrestled with the macabre arts
Of generosity until mastered enough to floss with,

And whilst they were at it
Batted a little longer at the crease
Until they beat back the bowling attack
Of the fractured,
Who,
Like me,
Kept at them
With sufficient line and length
To dent anybody’s defence,
But never bowled them over
Or sent them willingly to the pavilion,

As team talks of walking
Are balked at
When there are partners to chat at,
Or associates to boast with,
And,
Although it may be lonely at the top,
It’s still more social
Than the solitary bottom of the barrel
That still trammels me
To this side of the line
When I long to make magic amongst them.