For years our hard-boiled foursome
Came to the eighteenth hole;
And then the struggle for a par,
To save a payment at the bar.
The café beckoned from afar
To every thirsty soul.
When now on Sunday morning
Fred steps upon the tee,
With dull despair his brow is wet;
We do not care what score we get—
For ice cream sodas are the bet,
The price of victory.
“The time has come,” I heard Fred mutter,
“For me to fall upon my putter.”