"This poem was composed by 'Anon of Herts'. I don't
know when the game was played, only that my father, Tom Blomfield,
was playing and North Runcton won against allegedly strong opposition
from Herfordshire!" - Rosemary Rodliffe
In England, in Norfolk, in early July,
The wickets were pitched for a match;
NORTH RUNCTON C.C. were at home to a team
Who would hardly have called themselves "scratch".
They had come all the way from the County of Herts;
With a touring side's 'esprit de corps',
And yet they allowed the home side to declare
At two hundred and thirteen for four.
Now what would these Globetrotters do in reply?
(North Runcton prepared for the worst.)
Would they smack at the bowling and make the ball fly?
Or just get their eye in at first?
Whatever the orders the Skipper pronounced
In the dressing room to his eleven,
They had no effect, because well before 'time'
They'd been skittled - a mere one-one-seven.
They'd fumbled and groped and endeavoured to win
But often been bowled when in doubt;
And Blomfield, a butcher from bloody Kings Lynn,
Had got four of these Globetrotters out.
We are left to imagine that after the game,
With elbows and tankards in rhythm,
Excuses were offered, no matter how tame.
(No doubt demonstrations went with 'em.)
But when all's said and done, there's the score written in,
And the primary cause of the rout
Was that Blomfield, a butcher from bloody Kings Lynn,
Got four of the Globetrotters out.