_Some_ drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!
That's putting proper English on, you see!
And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up
To easy putting distance from the cup.
Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!
He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;
And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,
A new low record for the Piedmont Links.
See with what confidence he wends his way
The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!
The Gallery, expectant, follows thru
To see the Champion go down in _two_.
Then to the ball he makes his last address,
(The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)
And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so
Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.
Alas for human frailty! See it flit
Across the green into the sandy pit!
The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!
While he invoked the Deity in prayer.
And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,
The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.
A halo hung around the Stranger's head
It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,
For what he said, in type is not displayed
Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.
Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!
The Player loses all his self-control
And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,
When Caddie trails the ball and _kicks it in_!
Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks
The weary Golfers on their inward treks;
And close beside, beneath the porch's shade,
The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade
And other cheering drinks, within the law;
But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?