Testing Rhymes

What art thou folly Testing Times, This be me dolly Testing Rhymes

Ban the Cheats

by achettup

“Ban the Cheats” they chant with righteous pride

Interspersed murmurs ring indignant snide

He betrayed our sport, at its most sacred shrine

Twas bad enough their dark arts once made them shine

And on top of it all, he lied, he lied


Which cheats mean they, are all not equal?

False appeals, innings that should be sequels

What of those sleeves, those records built on chucking

And all those sweets they’re so eagerly sucking

Those diuretics for fatty faecal


“Cheating to win, its still a contest”

He undermined the fucking pretext

And we still bet, on small passages we gamble

See many spot fixes make the game a shamble

Its his morals see, thats what we reject


So ban for life, no second chances

This ain’t a Test, he’s got no answers

The same punishment for all such trespassers

As deterrent to those young and old gassers

But if they’re old… fuck that, lets clink glasses






by Sriram Dayanand

This whole bloody thing started just like an irritating rash
The kind you’d treat with some shitty itty bitty cream
But the friggin’ thing keeps lingering, keeps on festering
Persisting like a goddamned boring bad dream

There was a lull a while ago that gave you false hope
That we might see an end to this episodus ridiculis
But alas and alack, this miasma of a fiasco
Now looks like it’s gonna drag on like a bout of syphilis

No more holding our breaths, no ass-kissing in sight
This stupidity’s now officially beyond all hope
For what looked salvageable with faces all sheepish
Has turned into an unholy prison bar of soap

No one ain’t bending now, there’ll be no picking up
This soap opera is now destined for endless drudgery
But it’ll stench up the air and cauterize your nostrils
With its stinky fumes all noxious like buggery

Buffoons on one side y’er honor, prima donna on the other
And good ole’ English cricket flushed down the shitter
And whoa! It now turns out that them unholy acts
Have all along been slathered out on twitter?

KayPee just pouted, pointed fingers and squealed
Demanding justice and pox on the guilty heathen tits
We are shit outta luck now for this shit’s never gonna end
It’s gonna get worse now than when Straussy called it quits

The EeCeeBee scream “You texted first and you texted worse
Repent sinner, bend down and pick up that soap!
You’re forgetting who’s boss, who’s coin y’all are paid to toss
We ain’t gonna give in you big Saffer dope!”

In the midst of all this ignominy, can you just beat the irony
That they accuse each other of leaky tweets and being badder?
For the truth still remains, that the buffoons and prima donna
Are both guilty of springing more leaks than an alcoholic’s bladder

Do they expect me to bleed for millionaires squealing like babies
Expect me to sympathize with bosses, asses dripping molasses?
All I ask is that they get off my sports pages, take their pissy fight elsewhere
For they’ve now convinced me they are all nothin’ but jackasses

I am past the point of caring now, if Swanny and Jimmy are indeed pricks
Or if KayPee’s a bloodless hound who puts out tricks for a quick buck
So come join me and swear, that you’ll ignore these moronic dicks
And tell buffoons and prima donna that we now officially don’t give a fuck

Cricketing Hell

by achettup

If Test Cricket is heaven, then what must be hell?

Oh no, you didn’t… its the I.P.L!

Ode in medley to Daddy Cool – by Baloney M

by Sriram Dayanand

Light one up now

He’s crazy like a fool
Hey, hey Daddy cool
Daddy, Daddy Cool
Daddy, Daddy Cool

Daddy, Daddy Cool
He cool, yet so cruel

He’s friggin’ strong as a mule
Hey, hey Daddy Cool
Daddy, Daddy Cool
With a bat, he gonna make you drool

Daddy, Daddy Cool
He cool, yet so cruel

De bowler, he gonna look like a fool
Hey, hey Daddy Cool
Daddy, Daddy Cool
Chill bowler mon, you just his lil’ tool

(spoken bit – in ominous tones)

We crazy about our Daddy
We believes in him
We loves our Daddy sooo bad
We wet ourselves jus’ thinkin’ of him

Daddy, Daddy Cool
He cool, yet so cruel

Deep drag – ‘n move on

There lived a certain dreadlocked mon in Jamaica long ago
He so big and strong, ‘n his hair never stopped ta grow
Most people looked at him with soggy wet pants of fear
But to Bengaluru chicks he was such a lovely dear
Sometime he doze off at slip, smilin’ like a messiah
But when he launch it into orbit, it go highah ‘n highah
He could break a lil’ girl’s nose with no fuckin remorse
You may think he droopy eyed with ganja, but he still strong as horse

Mallya’s puppet, how you been?
You’re such a cool cat that smokes one too long
Bengaluru’s greatest love machine
We’d love you way more if you would share your bong

Dig it? (Replenish yer spliff now)

Piyush Chawla in the ring
Tra la la la la
There’s Piyush Chawla in the ring
Traaaa la la la la la
That useless fella’s in the ring
Tra la la la la
He gonna look like someone stuck one in his bum
Bum Bum

Show me your wrong ‘un
Tra la la la la
Come on show me your wrong ‘un
Traaaa la la la la la
Show me your fuckin’ wrong ‘un, mon
Tra la la la la
Now watch as it get lunched into da sun
Sun Sun

Trumpeting Wail

by achettup

Alas this time a year gone by,

Every morn I sang a song on high!

Wiping a tear off my Pandit’s brow,

“Tusky youer name is laaoo, laaoo!”

This year, to set me frontiers,

After the first round of IPL queers,

Turned on the television, oops internet stream

A nightmare had become my dream!

With all the force that I could muster,

Like an angry MI skipper I bluster!

Not in a squeaky voice but a turban,

Like a Saffer fast bowler in Durban!

“Whereforth art thou my Tuskers,

In cricket’s annual tournament buskers!”

When a shrewd administocrat turned and grinned,

with the guilt of one who cares not if he’s sinned!

“You can shout, your lips you may pucker,

But I kicked them out, along with that fucker!”

Katy tells on bad boy Dougie

by Sriram Dayanand

Ya know, I tell ya, I didn’t see it coming,
Was incredulous first and then was in shock
Had just begun to snake around in real ethnic style
In my sequined itty bitty sparkling frock

Them lights were dazzling, my groove was sparkling
When suddenly I felt like I’d been pushed
My Kalifornia street sense kicked in, whispered to me
“Hell baby, you’ve just been tushed”

Flown in from Santa Barbara, to my meditative heaven
But this time I was gonna put on a show
Be charmin’ Kalifornia gurl, croon for my Indian sweeties
Dazzle ‘em glowing like a ripened mango

With a billion eyes watchin, hangin on to my moves
This was my big Indian coming out
And now to my horror, right there on stage
An opportunistic paw had gone on a grope about!

Trying to be nice, I’d been like “Sure honey bunnies”
Sure I’d shake booty with one of your stars
They’d picked this Aussie stud, built like a house
Square as a chunky bouncer in them LA bars

When he hopped up on stage, I’d made pouty lips at him
Keepin up my end of the pact
And what does he do? Slides up behind
And wastes no time in gettin’ in on the act!

We were to mime some cricketing moves, act up a bit
He’d hold me from behind to show me a bat swing
Well, that was the script, but he skipped that bit
And instead my innocent ass felt a sting!

This much I tell ya, never expected this from cricket
These are classy men of principles I’d really hoped
And now in Chennai, in front of the cricketing world
My unsuspecting ass had been thoroughly groped

Ode to a potted plant

by Sriram Dayanand

Perhaps he was just a potted plant, brought in just to sanctify the place
But unlike the previous uber-boss, has anyone ever seen his fucking face?
His job title used to say commissioner,for fuck sake, you didn’t swallow that in?
All I wanna ask is, who the fuck and where the fuck is ex-Commissioner Ameeeen?

Oh Ameeeen, Ameeeen! Where the hell have you been?
Did ya ever have three blackberry’s, had any suits in pimpy green?
Did you lithp out your orders too, did you go vicious on people’s ass?
Did you manage that slimy cabal, with swollen balls plated with brass?

Never saw you huggin’ and smoochin’ Shilpa, rubbin’ up against Katrina’s ass
Chugging back a bottle with Herr Kingfisher, standing on Chinnaswamy’s grass
Never saw you shakin your booty with Shah Rukh, with korbo, a lorbo ‘n a twist
But if ya never show your friggin’ face, how the fuck do we know ya even exist?

You never filled those big shoes man, you never showed up at every game
We needed to see your sweaty mug on our screen, ya kept hidin’ ‘n it’s just a shame
Every freak show needs a midget. Or a bearded lady to spice it all up
Come out of your closet, whip out two Blackberrys, c’mon dude don’t be a fuckup

Oh Ameeeen, Ameeeeeen! C’mon out and please, preen and pout
We so miss havin’ a real pimp-daddy around, a leery mascot hangin’ about
Please show up and chill by the boundary ropes, hobnob with dem Bollywood flirts
Just look busy, look serious, and just keep lookin’ up those cheerleaders’ skirts

Why Wahul, why???

by Sriram Dayanand

Consider this my humble oration to you Wahul, just a plea, a yelp and a scream
You been the champion, you a true legend, your entire career it’s been a dream
You just adieu-ed impeccably, did it with class, strolled off into the sunset in style
Now, why oh why, may I ask you, have ya dipped your toes back in this shit pile?

Why did you do it, oh Wahul? Why didn’t you give this fuckin’ freak-show a pass?
It’s totally beneath your dignity man, slathering yourself with somethin’ this crass
Weren’t ya gonna stay home ‘n make tea for missus? Drive kiddies to school and class?
You’ve now agreed to grace your presence, at this mega-circus that sucks donkey ass?

This gong-show was all fine for Warney, he reveled in the glitz and the kitsch
Made doe eyes at Shilpa, leched at cheerleaders, treated it like it was his own lil bitch
But you ain’t cut from his fibre Wahul, this unholy crap ain’t your can of baked beans
Why don’t you just leave it to Watto, and haul ass to Bangalore before it demeans?

You been such a beacon of substance, for the REAL sport you’ve played a stellar part
You even done the Don’s oration, to do like that here you’d just need a fart
This piffle ain’t your brand of cricket man, this twaddle ain’t worth your precious time
It’s now gonna be a big shit-stain, you want our last image of you to be of this slime?

At last night’s stupid-ass show in Chennai, ya stood out like a scientist in a whorehouse
Buffoons made speeches, tarts squeaked out songs, you bein’ there is my only grouse
Now before the corny main event spews out, can ya please, please listen to my pitch?
Abdicate Jaipur, dump Shilpa Shetty, bugger off to Bangalore n’ give this IPL the ditch

Oooh, that smell ! Can you smell that smell ?

by Sriram Dayanand

It freakin’ just crept up behind me baby, crept right up on my unsuspectin’ ass
Startled my friggin’ brains off, till I realized t’was the same ‘ole stinky gas
Oh, but the omen sho ain’t pretty mama, it gonna be noxious in dem days to come
But I ain’t capitulatin’ baby, this evil ain’t not gonna creep up my bum

There’s somethin’ foul comin’ down soon, but I ain’t got dem twitchin’ ass cheeks
I am just waitin’ baby, waitin, for the unveilin’ of the confederacy of freaks
Halle-friggin-luljah, ya bozos, I be warned, be fortified and goddamned armed
My intellect ain’t petrified,ass ain’t putrified, yer slimy claws be cussed ‘n be damned!

Bring on the evil, ya heathen and ya sinned…..

(This sho’ be just the dawn….there be more to come sho’ as hell)

Pox on you, Mankad abusers

by Sriram Dayanand

If you’re ever brazenly bitch-slapped, do ya bawl and claim you’ve been Harbhajan-ed?
If as a streaker you get gang-tackled, do ya whine that you were Symond-ed?
If a bouncer makes you shit your pants, is it time to squeal you’ve been Jardine-d?
Then why-oh-why in friggin’ hell, do you still pick on poor ole’ Vinoo Mankad?

The statute of limitations smearing his name with mud should’ve long been revoked
But the moment a non-striker gets an ant in his pants, poor Vinoo’s name gets invoked?
Here as a verb, there as a noun, even adjectively abused in refrain
Can’t you leave his name the fuck alone, find yourself another word to maim?

Just concentrate on the rules ya morons, get your sanctimonious asses in gear
Your nitpicky whinings are beginning to grate, your “Waaa! Mommy, that wasn’t fair”
Siding with the batsmen as always you are, wanking away at the Spirit of Cricket
But if you dare raise Vinoo’s name again, I’m bus conductor and your face’s the ticket.

Consider this fair but dire warning assholes, a serving of notice ‘bout your thuggery
The name Mankad ain’t yours to fuck with, his memories are not yours for buggery
Next time you see umpires clueless out there, and another hokey runout comes to pass
If you friggin’ dare use the “M” word again, I’ll shove the Spirit of Cricket up your ass.