Lord Richie - A Poem

Richie McCaw, 100 tests as skipper it's only right we pay tribute

In the only way we know how, so hardcore and raw he's never played in a dinner suit

The definition of a Kiwi, hitting rucks, he only knows one route

Whether he's coming in the side, or through the gate, the law breaker he's never been a mute

 

Some hate him because he lives on the edge

The edge of the ref's tolerance, the edge of a pile of men

Lord Richie, hunting for the ball like a gold miner on his dredge

Not to mention his hair cut resembles a hedge, a national icon like Big Ben

 

Big Ben pies that is, McCaw only instills pride

He takes it on the chin, when people hate him for ill-discipline

It's his job, look in the history books and what will you find? 

Our greatest since Pinetree, post-Richie the future may be grim

 

He's as good a leader as he is at doing his job with the team

He leads with words and actions, while opponents ruffle his feathers

If he were a cricketer, he'd bowl 145 clicks and always hit the seam

We'll still see him soaring after retiring, flying in his gliders