Shall I ever see again

In the human head a brain

Like the article that fills

That interior of Bill’s?

Never a day can pass but he

Makes some great discovery;

His inventions are so many

That you cannot think of any

Realm of science, wit or skill

That is not enriched by Bill.

To relieve the awful strain

Of possessing such a brain

William always used to play

Eighteen holes each Saturday.

But he scarce could see at all,

And he often lost his ball,

Plus his temper and his pelf,

So he made a ball himself,

Which, if it should chance to roam

Out of sight, played “Home, Sweet Home”

On a small euphonium he

Had inserted in its tummy.

Next he wrought with cunning hand

Round its waist an endless band,

An ingenious affair

Such as tanks delight to wear;

And, inside, a little motor

Started every time you smote or

Even when you topped your shot;

And, once started, it would not

Stop, for if it came within

Half a furlong of the pin,

Then it was designed to roll

Straight and true towards the hole.

This is scarcely strange, because

It was bound by Nature’s laws,

And a magnet was the force

(Hidden ’neath its skin, of course)

Which, thought he, would make it feel

Drawn towards a pin of steel.

When he practised first with it

William almost had a fit,

For the ball with sudden whim

Started madly chasing him!

“That’s a game that I’ll soon settle,”

William said; “my clubs are metal;

Spoons and other clubs of wood

Will be every bit as good.”

Then he found to his dismay

Every time he tried to play

That the ball with sundry hoots

Chased the hob-nails in his boots.

Finally he had to use

On his feet a pair of shoes

Of a most peculiar shape

Made of insulating tape.

So the final test arrives

When once more he tees and drives.

Joy! As soon as he has hit he

Sees it toddling down the pretty,

Never swerving left or right

Till it waddles out of sight,

Plodding through a bunker and

Braying like a German band.

Reader, possibly you’ll guess

That the ball was a success.

’Twas in fact a super-sphere,

But—I shed a scalding tear

On these verses as I write ’em—

He forgot just one small item

Which (as small things often will)

Simply put the lid on Bill:

For the hole proved far too small

To accommodate his ball.