As the cricketing world pines for his return, let me describe how the despot that goes by the name,"ABD" has beguiled the cricket habitues.
The bowler struts down the pitch and fires a gratuitous verbal volley.
A Bronx cheer followed. The batsman smiles simperingly.
It wasn't a smirk. His bat was a chainsaw that could tear the leather into chunks.
No nugget of the ball ever lived to tell the tale of the despot.
Destruction was his characteristic gait. But the frivolous
Bowler gave back a smug look. So far ABD had played safe.
There were just prods and nurdles. A bit of
Some speckled whiffling. But no cold-blooded bludgeoning.
As the game progressed into the derriere, the crowd could forebode the inevitable.
The rosewood would soon be replaced by a sledgehammer known for its abrogation.
Fearing the worst, bowler pitches one up.
ABD scooches down on one knee and whips the ball with enough oomph.
Bowler shrieked in anguish. Up next was a long hop, the batter clobbers it over the head of the fielder at point.
It wasn't just a slash. It was a thwack. A
ABD raked the bowlers over the coals without uttering a word. All sly deliveries ran into the sand.
The ball was smeared. The bowlers hacked to death. It was a destruction beyond description.
One that could send the bravest souls into a dither. It obtunded the tempestuous night.
It could move the world, stop an invasion, put poltergeist to shame.
The zombie apocalypse can never be so gruesome. Hitler looked like an apotheosized soul. Murder felt licit.
It could expunge humanity, cause blue funk or cure it altogether. It was not that he jumped on the bandwagon all of a sudden
Improvisation was his innate lineament. This incessant browbeat seemed more intimidating than a manslaughter.
It was a bellicose brand of batting. It irked purists. The scrimmage threatened the existence of bowlers.
One could smell the gore. There lied clamoring chunks of bowlers.
If there was any music worth loving, it was the sound of bat caressing the bat.
This was probably the only time a subjugation felt mollifying and soothing to the eyes. It was the only elixir worthwhile.
The magic can't be unraveled by any literary piece. It was
It was a poetry from the romantic era.
ABD looked impregnable and there seemed no might strong enough to put an end to the holocaust, perhaps, the innings break.
The only thing that seemed a tad saintish amidst this pugnacity was his puerile smile.
ABD is indeed a Jekyll and Hyde personality.
PS: However plausible it may seem, it is not a description of any innings in particular. It is a write up on an ABD innings in a nutshell.
Editor's note: This piece of poetry has been written by one of our bloggers. This is the first time such an article has been published on our site. We welcome your feedback on this.