Shut up Sharapova, you’re a monumental bore,
You make the joy of watching Wimbledon a shouty, screechy chore,
With every wail of anguish, and every bellowed scream,
I want to stuff your massive gob with strawberries and cream.

Please shut up Sharapova, do the watching world a favour,
Give us just a minute’s break of silence we can savour,
At one end of the tennis court I’m positively thrilled,
But from the other comes a piercing shriek of something being killed.

Dear Sharapova, please excuse my acrid tone,
But after watching just two sets of you I need to be alone,
It’s like I’ve opened up my sitting room to a raging power lifter,
And you haven’t even started going up the volume shifter.

It’s so confusing Sharapova, you’ve such silky endless legs,
But you are literally a siren, and the question that this begs,
Is how can something quite so wonderful make such an awful din?
And also does council make a soundproof wheely bin?

Shut up Sharapova, we all know you have to whack it,
But other players manage it without that dreadful racket,
You’re so elegant between the points, your flowing golden hair,
So why transform into a werewolf being murdered by a bear?

I wonder if when night time comes and you’ve other balls in hand,
And your coupling reaches 40 love, is it heard throughout the land?
In the final throws of pleasure does your other half roll over,
Put his fingers in his ears, pleading “shut up Sharapova”?

Ok Sharapova, so I’d like to make a deal,
That perhaps we could agree over a quiet evening meal,
The tennis fans of England give a million English pounds,
To make sure that this ordeal doesn’t last the early rounds.

I look forward to your thoughts.