Squat, visored knight, armoured in storied deeds, Uses his bat's butt-end to shift his box,Takes guard, gardens for invisible weeds,Looks up, thanks Dad, ignores two wheeling hawksNo higher in their heaven than him on turf…Buoyed by devotion's thermals, desis surf.A hundred runs, two hundred, maybe three,Will help delete the demi from their godGive us this day a valedictoryExplosion, oh, let Bombay's sacred sodBe his last proving ground, his portal,To that rare rank: Certified Immortal.Immortals can't cite age as their excuse,Swansongs must scale the summits of their pomp;To fail is to invite unhinged abuseFrom second-hand men who dimly rompThrough heroes' lives and will go starkly madWithout that brilliant youth we never had.
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