It was somewhere in the desert, in a land of rock and scrub
That they formed an institution called the Scottsdale Cricket Club
They were a mean and wiry bunch from that rugged desert sun
The ball was never bowled that the Scottsdales couldn't run
But their style of playing cricket was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, and mighty little dash
They played on baseball pitches that were hard, dry and flat?
Though their whites were not white and they only had one bat
 
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam
That a cricket club existed called the Phoenix Cricket Team
As a social institution 'twas a marvelous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had a nice little ground that was nice and smooth and sleek
For their cultivated owners only played it once a week
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame
For they meant to show the Scottsdales how they ought to play the game
 
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed
When the Scottsdale boys got going it was time to clear the road
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead
And the phoenix team club captain, when he tumbled off to die
Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie
 
Then the captain of the scottsdales raised him slowly from the ground
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance
So he scrambled to the wicket for his last expiring chance
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side
So he struck at the ball - and missed - then tumbled off and died
 
By the old salt river, where the breezes shake the grass,
Theres a row of little gravestones that the sportsmen never pass
For they bear a rude inscription saying, 'stranger shed a tear,
For the Phoenix Cricket players and the Scottsdale boys lie here'
And on misty moonlit evenings, when the coyotes howl around
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom cricket ground
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet
And the rattle of their bats and the rush of bowlers feet
Till the terrified spectators run like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Scottsdale cricket club