L. B. Well, so be it.
Must do my best. What sort of wickets?
C. B. Crumbling.
Must meet the ball with a straight bat; no fumbling,
Or out you go!
L. B. And how's the fielding?
C. B. Dicky!
'Tis there you'll have the pull that wickets sticky
Or cut up, through the influence of weather,
Can't neutralise. They're never all together.