Scandal at Camberley
Miss J. Hunter Dunn? Miss J. Hunter Dunn?
You dastardly devious son of a gun.
I know you as James, how can you be Joan
When you're six foot four and not yet fully grown?
Love-thirty, love-forty - my, how they looked grim,
Agatha, Jessica, Lucy and Prim,
As with mutton-chop whiskers you hoofed round the court
Smashing backhand returns of a break-clinching sort.
The grace of a rhino, the strength of a bear,
With a crash and a flash your balls flew through the air.
Your racket rose tall - from the vim of its swing
Came braces of aces of menace and sting.
The umpire was stunned. She gave you a Look.
She desperately thumbed and consulted the Book.
The new rules were clear - she proclaimed your win
Then went for a lime juice with quadruple gin.
The final's completed, the tournament's done -
The lady champion's Mr J. Hunter Dunn!
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Joseph Conlon would
be pleased to hear them.