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Not My Poems


Dejeuner Du Matin

Drunken Sod

The Tennis Player

William Hazlitt

The Tennis Player

He issues a challenge to those who may manage,
To return his blistering serve.
He may get it in and create some damage,
If the bloody ball wouldn’t swerve.

He’ll practice his shots, his form looks red hot;
His opponents look on in dismay.
Strong forehand and backhand, he has the lot
He’ll thrash them after work when they play.

When game time comes round, he says he is bound,
To win every set by six-love.
But after one game; there is a frustrated frown,
And he’s praying for help from above.

He plays with a racket that’s cost him a packet,
In the sporting goods shop in the town.
He throws the ball up attempting to “wack” it
Three times as it’s on it’s way down.

At last he has won and it’s all been great fun
And they laughed when he has cursed and swore,
He tells his opponents that he is sixty-one
From shock they fall to the floor.

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