Twas the night before Cashmas and all through the clubhouse
Not a pundit was stirring, not even Sir Strauss.
The clocking of runs by Barthley and Grier,
In hopes that Cat treasure soon would be there.
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of double-tons danced in their heads.
For sure was the belief, that the Garden would play crap,
Settled with knowledge that the White Horse will snap.
For out on the square will arise the key batter.
The fans spring to their feet, the pitch could be no more flatter.
The land of the spitfire is where they will clash,
The Churches will win, and claim all the Cash.