When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease

When the day is done and the ball has spun in the umpires pocket away

And all remains in the groundsman's pains for the rest of time and a day

There'll be one mad dog and his master, pushing for four with the spin

On a dusty pitch with two pounds six of willow wood in the sun

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, you never know whether he's gone

If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at silly Mid-on

And it could be Geoff and it could be John with a new ball sting in his tail

And it could be me and it could be thee and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, well you never know whether he's gone

If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at silly Mid-on

And it could be Geoff and it could be John with a new ball sting in his tail

And it could be me and it could be thee and it could be the sting in the ale, sting in the ale

When the moment comes and the gathering stands and the clock turns back to reflect

On the years of grace as those footsteps trace for the last time out of the act

Well this way of life's recollection, the hallowed strip in the haze

The fabled men and the noonday sun are much more than just yarns of their days

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, well you never know whether he's gone

If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at silly Mid-on

And it could be Geoff and it could be John with a new ball sting in his tail

And it could be me and it could be thee and it could be the sting in the ale, the sting in the ale

When an old cricketer leaves the crease, well you never know whether he's gone

If sometimes you're catching a fleeting glimpse of a twelfth man at silly Mid-on

And it could be Geoff and it could be John with a new ball sting in his tail

And it could be me and it could be thee