Goodbye Wimbledon

The paparazzi swarm like ants
To snap those girls that flash their pants.

So Wimbledon is gone? Goodbye!
My eye stays resolutely dry.
Oh what an ordeal it has been,
Two weeks in South West Seventeen.
Robotic men with tree-trunk thighs –
The Terminator in disguise –
Smash balls with no finesse or guile.
‘Tis hardly service with a smile.

Meanwhile, the girls take every chance
To bend and stretch and flash their pants.

The Swiss is on a mighty roll,
And swallowed Andy Roddick whole.
Other players, like Lleyton Hewitt,
As the seeds predicted, blew it.
No shocks, no upsets, quite forseeable,
Nobody was disagreeable.
Oh Lord, let McEnroe come back,
And spray around some foul-mouthed flak.

And sad old men, as in a trance,
Stare as the ladies flash their pants.

So Wimbledon is gone? Farewell!
Two weeks of total sporting hell.
Serves so fast they’re indiscernible,
Absolutely unreturnable.
The ballboys, having been well taught
To chase their balls around the court,
Crouch fearfully in utter dread,
Lest one loose smash should leave them dead.

The umpire gives a sideways glance
When carefree ladies flash their pants.

So Wimbledon is gone? At last!
Poor old Tim again outclassed.
The highlight, yes, without a doubt,
Is seeing Henman bowing out.
The sobbing all around the ground,
When beaten in the second round,
Is beautiful to hear and see
For hardened cynics such as me.

Said Guildenstern to Rosencrantz,
“Prince Hamlet never flashed his pants.”

So Wimbledon is gone? Hooray!
As boredom, not the rain, stops play.
Rallies few and far between
In London’s SouthWest Seventeen.
Smash and volley, volley, smash,
Become the norm in every clash.
No Borg or Becker in the sport
To spray their balls around the court.

Pray tell me, what’s the papal stance
On girls who blithely flash their pants?