There's derisive jeers at the Gabba today,
First ball wide as an Aussie grin,
First day lost and a series to play,
Three ton behind and Ponting still in.
And it’s not for the sake of a Wisden's vote
Or some grevious bodily Harmison's name
But Fred's flinty hand on his shoulder smote
"Pitch up, pitch up and knock down Shame."
II (third day)
The dust of the Gabba is stained with sweat
Wet with the wreck of a team that broke
The plan is dead and the bowlers wrecked
And the batters are blind with Ashes’ smoke
The Aussies are rubbing our nose in the dirt
And England’s far and honour a name
But don’t kick a Pom when he’s bloodied and hurt,
"Stand up, pad up - and fight again!"
There’s a gallows laugh at the Gabba tonight
Two hundred made, four hundred to win,
Five men gone in the fading light,
The captain down and the wickie in.
And it's not for the sake of a hope that’s gone.
Or to make good the boasts now proved to be vain,
But the battle joined and the heart proved strong
Come rain, come Warne, let’s play the game!
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