I am rather a "pootlesome" bat—

I seldom, indeed, make a run;

But I'm rather the gainer by that,

For it's bad to work hard in the sun.

As a "field" I am not worth a jot,

And no one expects me to be;

My run is an adipose trot,

My "chances" I never can see.

I am never invited to bowl,

And though, p'r'aps, this seems like a slight,

In the depths of my innermost soul

I've a notion the Captain is right.

In short, I may freely admit

I am not what you'd call a great catch

But yet my initials are writ

In the book against every match!

For although—ay, and there is the rub—

I am forty and running to fat,

I have made it all right with the Club,

By presenting an Average Bat!