There wasn't so much in it. Serious men

   Who shoveled in the door at one-to-ten

   To see the game on Sky,

Were sure at one point, somewhere near half past,

   That even Howlett wasn't half so fast

      We'd get a single try.
      But then their ears fell off. And without sound

   The paddy farmers, clawing at the ground,

   Were pretty soon afraid.

They couldn't hear their coach. A score of years

   Of cigarettes put out inside their ears

      Had lowered them a grade.
      The Great Might of our props, rucking through

   Their broken corpses, popping up like poo,

   Made yum chah of the game.

A match of seven hundred halfs, it seemed

   No bug-eyed Quin or Mexted would've dreamed

      That China was so tame.
      Two hundred Nil we won; and I contend

   That when the carnage shivered to its end,

   Rugby had siezed the day.

A student, name of Feng, began to cry

   But when reporters asked his captain why,

      He said he didn't know.