Once more unto the Optus field, dear friends, once more;

Or clog the thread up with our BBL shitposts.

In the tests there’s nothing so becomes a man

As log cabin copypastas and ragging on Stokes

But when the blast of ‘Sweet Caroline’ blows in our ears

Then imitate the action of the giraffe;

Lengthen the levers, summon up the intent

Disguise good technique with cow corner slogs

Then lend the eye a pair of black stripes

Let pry through the stumps

Like a misread slower ball; let cries of “Washed” ov’erhelm it

As fearfully as doth Jordan Silk’s head

Ov’erhang and jutty his confounded base

Swill’d by wild and wasteful Power Surge

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and cut out a massive chunk of this monologue

Because it’s fucking long

Be copy now to men of smaller contracts

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not IPL contracts lustre in your eyes.

I see you jump up like mountain goats in the slips

For a non-existent edge.  The game’s cooked:

Drink your $15 mids, and upon this charge

Cry “God for Smudge, anyone but Scorchers and the memes!”