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Sports

Time marches on, the years fly by, the seasons come and go;
The cricketer grows wistful, he’s comforted to know
That should his memory grow dim as one day may his sight
One vital aspect of his life is down in black and white.
And while life's small achievements have seldom been rewarded
At least his exploits on the field are faithfully recorded.
Moments of exuberance, skill and graft and pain
By looking through the scorebook can be lived and lived again.





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