Sweet is the sound as leather bound the well timed willow strikes Mild the applause that cheers the cause of the bat and the ball alike Soft is the ground where can be found a young man sound asleep And old is the game that shares its name with the insect at his feet How could he know the lengths to which they'd go To claim his soul for England and the Queen How could it be colonial brains conceived That glorious game It always seems to be the paradox The bourgeoisie bat the proletariat toil in the field all day
I should be incensed by what it represents And yet it's a damn good game And although I hope that the peasants revolt And cast off the yoke of oppression Perhaps Europe's millions can storm the pavilions After the afternoon session How could he know the lengths to which they'd go To claim his soul for England and the Queen How could it be colonial brains conceived That glorious game It always seems to be the paradox ...