dictates a sonnet (in the Petrarchan style) on his declining powers at tennis
When I consider how my forehand’s spent,
Left in the veteran’s doubles for a gentle hack;
And that one talent which I had and now I lack,
Lodged with me useless, in arthritic knee unbent:
To serve at speed my Dunlop with intent,
Now hits my partner’s rear end with a smack.
‘Does he expect clean aces from a frozen back?’
I fondly ask. But Partner, to prevent
My tantrum, soon replies, ‘I do not need
Either your volley or your top-spin lob;
Your fluffed return with neither slice nor swerve.
For fetching drop shots I have all the speed;
With your knees you’re confined to static job:
They also rate who only stand and serve.’