Act I – The Tragedy of Wellington A

O, Wellington A! How heavy the heavens did hang upon thy green this week. For when Taunton Deane C came forth, Their woods rolled with such cruel precision That the very turf beneath thy feet Seemed to conspire against thee.

What humiliation befell our noble side— Embarrassed, humbled, and struck low As though Fortune herself had turned her back And whispered, “Not today, brave Wellington.”

The markers told a tale of sorrow, The heads lay scattered like soldiers fallen, And the home crowd, loyal yet aghast, Could only watch as Taunton Deane C Claimed their triumph with merciless ease.

Thus ends the tragic chapter of Wellington A, A tale fit for the quill of the Bard, Where valour met misfortune And pride was left to mend its wounds.

But soft! What light through yonder scoreboard breaks? It is Wellington B, and glory is the sun.

For upon the greens of Minehead B They unleashed a tempest of skill, A thrashing so complete That even Neptune would have paused To admire the waves of victory rolling forth.

Their woods danced true, Their heads lay perfect, And their aggregate shone bright as a crown. Thus they stand atop Division Two, Firm as a monarch upon a throne of polished lignum vitae.

And lo, Wellington C, Long beset by trials and tribulations, Did rise this week with spirits renewed.

Against Bridgwater C they fought with vigour, Casting aside doubt and frailty, And claiming a win that warmed the hearts Of all who bear the Wellington name.

Their triumph was not thunderous, Nor did it shake the league entire, But it was sweet— A gentle, hopeful melody Played upon the strings of perseverance.

Thus in Wellington we behold A tapestry woven of sorrow, triumph, and hope.

Wellington A, bowed but not broken, Must gather strength for battles yet to come.

Wellington B, radiant in their ascendancy, Stride boldly toward the new Division Two.

Wellington C, renewed and resolute, Find their footing once more upon the green.

In this week the eleventh, The fates have spoken in many tongues— Tragic, triumphant, and tender— Yet all belong to Wellington, Whose story continues With every wood cast upon the summer turf.