Loping out from the cool, dark locker room,
The wiry Scot surveys the sun-beat court.
With eyes scrunched squinty after inside’s gloom,
He bares teeth snarling in a smile of sorts.
Roars of support for this homegrown beanstalk
Makes dust on the baselines quiver and jump.
His tiny eyes scan the place like a hawk,
Half bird-of-prey and half big, gangly chump.
Undoubtedly good, at world number four,
Everyone’s willing to become a fan.
But being his fan is such a big chore,
His having the charm of a frying pan.
Andy Murray, you’re the nation’s first pick,
It’s just such a shame you’re a massive dick.