Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Stern lord of his house and kin,
Is a small, bald man, and a cricket fan
   Since the night he listened in
On his young son's set one winter morn.
   Now his Test complex grows tireless;
But his small, meek wife tends a lonely life,
   And the small son mourns his wireless.

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Was met at his door last night
By the low-voiced maid whose eye betrayed
   A state of chronic fright,
And Mary stammered in nervous tones
  "Mum-Madam's took a chill, sir."
Fitzmickle gasped, "What's that?" he asked,
   Said Mary, "Madam's ill, sir."

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Clutched at his brow and groaned,
His face grew white in the evening light,
   "Oh, this is the end!" he moaned.
"All hope has gone!"  But Mary said,
   "Please, sir; don't look so sad, sir.
A 'eadache's wot the missus got.
   Don't fret.  She ain't that bad, sir."

Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
   Glared, as his voice came back --
Glared at the maid, "You mumbling jade!
   Wretch!  You deserve the sack!"
"But, sir --"  "Enough! Can't you speak plain?
   'Madam?'"  He raved like a madman,
"Out of my sight! . . . Lord!  What a fright!
   I thought that you said 'Bradman'!"

"Den"
Herald, 20 July 1934, p6