He worked as hard at golf
As any man alive;
For nothing went the time he spent—
He always sliced his drive.
He held himself like this,
He held himself like that;
By hook and crook he tried to look
And see where he was at.
He changed his stance and grip—
It mattered not at all;
The same old thing with every swing,
He sliced the bally ball.
He put his right foot forward,
He put his right foot back;
But still his game remained the same—
He sliced at every crack.
He told it to the lockers,
He told it in the hall,
Till more and more it grew a bore
To hear he sliced the ball.
He read the books of Vardon,
Of Taylor, Braid, and all;
But every shot went straight to pot—
He sliced the cursed ball.
He went to Doctor Vardon,
And got the best advice;
He whaled the pill till he was ill,
Nor ever lost his slice.
Doc took him out to pasture,
And showed him what to do,
And while the Doc was there to knock
He hit them fairly true.
But after Doc departed
The stuff was off again:
He shot it on to Helngon,
And nearly went insane.
He tried to hit it easy,
But still his trouble grew;
He tried, like Jesse Guilford,
To split the ball in two.
No matter how he whacked it,
He sliced into the tall.
“O Lord, how long!” his frenzied song;
“How must I hit the ball?”
Again to Old Doc Vardon
He tottered for advice.
Said Doc: “We’ll have to operate,
And cut away that slice.”
He overlapped with Vardon,
He underlapped with Vaile—
And sliced into the garden
Of Mr. Ezra Hale.
He trained with Doctor Hammond—
“The Essence of the Matter”—
Old Simpson, Bart., he knew by heart,
And yet his score grew fatter.
He put his right hand under,
He put his right hand up,
But still the ball would hunt the tall,
Nor ever reach the cup.
He put his heels together,
He put his heels apart.
With anguished brow he wondered how
He’d ever learn the art.
He laid the club-face forward,
He laid the club-face back.
His face grew thin, his chest fell in,
His mind began to crack.
(Note: _This poem was never finished by Mr. Taylor._ Ed.)
* * * * *
Mr. Pradt of Wausau, Wis., writes to us: “One day last summer I found my
ball, after a fine approach, lying in a hole on the back of a toad. Would
you hold that the ball was teed up?” We should hold, off hand, that it
was toad up.