Ode To Andrew

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.

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