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Deep
in the English countryside,
With
lofty church and steeple,
The
little town of Badminton
Rests
with all its people.
Those
people play a friendly game,
Like
tennis with a racket,
Except
they use a cork with feathers
And
across a net they wack it.
They
once called this a shuttlecock;
It
shuttles forth and back
As
players jump up with their bat
To
give the cock a whack.
It
seems a strange idea to me,
But
I'll tell what Grandma heard:
'Tis
no longer called the shuttlecock;
They
say it is "The Bird".
The
poor bird must keep flying.
Don't
let it fall to earth,
Or,
sun or frost, a score is lost
And
fifteen points that's worth.
This
is very hard work!
Please
come and play Badminton with me.
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