The Masters! The Masters!
Do you think that's what they'll say,
When they have witnessed this carnival
And seen the way we play?

 Our reflexes have slowed up;
They no longer have that haste,
And the joddies no longer fit,
They're too tight around the waist.

The bridle it needs oiling
And there's rust upon the bit,
And after four chukkas of polocrosse
You'll realise you're not that fit.

Mice have eaten through the straps
That hold on the Willoughby spurs,
And the kids now do the brushing,
To remove those bloody burrs.

Gone for the old faithful racquet,
But it's no longer there,
The kids have told you they have broken it,
When they used it as a spare.

But we have got it all together now,
Because we are really bloody keen,
And we'll play out these Masters,
In the way they have never seen.

When I was a young fella,
Still wet behind the ears,
Some of these people here
Had been playing for years and years.

Your Birth Certificate will be needed,
So that we all know your age,
It will be a well kept secret,
Well it will at this stage.

So when we are out there playing tomorrow,
And you young ones think we're not having a go,
We'll come back and watch you play,
When you turn the big "Four O"!

by Leonard Madden