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?