The Mysteries of the Green
(With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson)
On either side the fairway lie
Yards of rough 6 inches high
And trees that seem to reach the sky.
With any luck the ball rolls by
Towards the waiting green.
And up and down the golfers go
Through the wind and rain and snow.
Where the ball goes they don’t know
Perhaps it’s on the green?
Over hill and over dale
Though their cheeks will go quite pale
In their quest they’ll never fail
And their puny arms will flail
To get it to the green
Some men have been known to shiver
And their lips are seen to quiver
When the ball goes in the river
Nowhere near the green!
But still in golf they will derive
A pleasure that will always thrive
Which makes them glad that they’re alive
When they hit the perfect drive
For chipping to the green
But then the chip will go awry
It’s known to make a grown man cry
Some clubs are broken by and by
Just beside the green
In the bunker’s wind blown sand
The deepest one in all the land
A shot that all one’s skills demand
All are there at your command
To flip it on the green
But woe is me it hits the lip
And back into the sand will slip
For you to take another chip
At that blasted green!
At last it is the time to putt
That wondrous feeling in the gut
When it’s hit sweetly as a nut
Towards the hole as in a rut
Delight upon the green.
But then there are the putts that miss
That make us want to boo and hiss
There is no misery like this
Putting on the green
The eighteenth green has come in sight
The final shot in fading light
By the flag is nestled tight
All upon the earth is right
For handshakes on the green
And at the closing of the day
At the course they cannot stay
They’ll have to put their clubs away
And leave the final green!
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