I Coulda Made a Hundred
I have been in Australia
Twenty bloody years
I still don't understand
What the hell is cricket
Each Saturday Bluey and Curly
Open the bowling
Both very fast
Right handers
Neither of them can bat
To save their bloody lives
Bluey scored 10 last season
Curly got just seven
Stacky is still wearing a scar
He carted Curly over the fence
Next ball Curly came in with a roar
They carted Stacky to hospital
The cricket ground
Was always brown
Not a blade of grass to be seen
The pitch as hard as rocks
A couple of years ago
Bluey took six wickets
Celebrated with a few beers
While Echuca batted
The team captain called
Pad up Bluey, you're in next
Bloody hell are you sure
Better be quick Curly's gone to bat
Bluey was feeling a little drunk
He padded up
Ready for battle
Bring the bastards on
The crowd roared
Ian Redpath, good old Redders
Was gone, out for ten
His worst score that year
Bluey strode to the pitch
Feeling no pain
Curly smiling from the bowler's end
Bluey holding the bat like a club
Cods Whiting came thundering in
Eager for another wicket
Bluey stared defiantly
And hit him over the fence
Next ball went for three
To end an exciting over
Bluey was so relaxed
Curly in a state of shock
The other half of Watchem's
Pace attack Trevor Smith
Eyed Bluey like a cat would a mouse
This will be too easy
Bluey hooked the bumper
It ran along the ground for four
The next ball was fielded in the gully
They only got one
Curly not to be outdone
Gave a mighty swing
The crowd roared
He was out for a bloody duck
I would've made a hundred
You bloody drongo
Bluey muttered as they walked off
Yeah and the Pope'll be Polish
Bluey never let him forget
The day he hit a six
And would've made a hundred
But Curly couldn't bat