After everything else he'd done, the perfect evocation of the great eccentricity that is cricket;

When the day is done, and the ball has spun
In the umpire's pocket away,
And all remains is the groundsman's pains
For the end 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 his hand...

Sort THAT out across the pond!