Martin's vicious forehand slams
A yellow missile onto the baseline
It's a rocket. Whistles like a bullet
Two games to one. Final set
With a faintly superior smile
He looks almost apologetic
‘I'm afraid I won that one, again’
He shows barely a trace of sweat
My people wrapped butter for his
There is a certain look to their mouths
We pressed their cricket whites
Ran their baths, polished their brogues
Their superiority is in-bred
Part of the order of things
Like Martin's forehand lob
We died for them in our droves
Prep school, Oxford, the coxless fours
And now this. A minor victory
On the municipal courts
He is about to take me apart
He crouches at the quivering net
He'll be modest in victory, of course
Smile and offer a limp fist
Shame I had such a rotten start
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