There were some that swore and some that cried,
And some that stood and muttered,
Some were proud, and some were coy,
And others merely stuttered.

There were voices raised in anger,
Shrill screams split the air,
There were those who didn't say a thing,
Because they really didn't care.

"I won't play with him", one said,
"He's a bloody hopeless skip"
And one who very quietly said,
"It's time I took my trip"

There were many self selections,
There were lots of "bloody hells!"
There weren't very many
who said the Selectors had done well.

The players knew who should be there,
They knew who to pick,
Just ask them when you hear them say,
"That selector is a $$##@!"

Each year the tears get deeper,
As on the floor they fall,
From those who stand in anguish
Before the wailing wall.

      The SELECTORS PRAYER:

Blessed are they who can play bowls as a sport
Blessed are they who can still be taught
Blessed are they who accept with grace
To play in any selected place.

     Who Am I?

I'm a Number One Bowler, and a prima donna too,
And I won't be told, where to play, by blokes without a clue,
I'm simply just the greatest one to ever roll a bowl,
And when the pennant teams are picked, I want the Starring role.

Now, the Chairman of selectors, he said to ME one day,
We're gonna play you as the Lead; like bloody hell I say,
Then later on he winked at me and very slyly beckoned,
There's been a change of plans he said, we're gonna play you as Second.

I let him know he's got a nerve, and said "Now look here Bub,
If you can't appreciate my skill, I'll find another club",
So they hold a special meeting and, pick me number Three,
But I make it pretty plain to them, that's no bloody good to ME.

Another conference then takes place and after all the fun,
They put me where I should have been, a Skipper Number One.
I'm slightly mollified by now and though Skippers get the plums,
It's still beneath my dignity... to play with all you BUMS...

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