Down on Centre Court, the crowd was tight,
Strawberries munched in summer bright.
When who should serve with flair and glee?
Why, Great Uncle Bulgaria—Wombling free!
He’d swapped his litter-picking ways
For tennis whites and centre-stage.
With racket in paw and sweatband askew,
He twirled like Federer (after a brew).
Madame Cholet tossed the ball up high,
Missed it twice, and gave a sigh.
“Forehand’s fine,” she said with a snort,
“Just wish the net weren’t quite so short!”
Orinoco, snack in hand,
Really hadn’t grasped the ‘grand slam’ plan.
He swung mid-bite, his backhand missed—
But the umpire’s hat? A sure-fire hit.
Tobermory rigged his strings with flair,
A recycled grip made from an old chair.
The crowd adored their eco-style,
Even if their serves went wide a mile.
Wimbledon paused in utter awe,
As The Wombles broke every tennis law.
But eco-chic and charm prevailed—
Though none of their match stats were detailed.
So, here’s to tennis, grass, and glee,
And Wombles wobbling on TV.
They clean, they swing, they miss with pride—
Yet somehow always win… wombleside.
