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Show The Golfer's Paradise. I ask but little when I'm dead As recompense for earthly woes, . No golden crown upon my head, No harp to weary hands and toes; No halo would I wear, indeed. No purple robe beyond my means I only ask a well rolled mead, With eighteen holes and putting greens A caddy with a lynx-like eye, And wings upon his shoulder tips. Shall watch me whack the balls, then frjr To follow on their airy trips; And when I come on gentle wmjr He'll hand me then, the watchful soul, A putter fit for prince or king That's guaranteed to make the goal. The tees shall be the sort from which One drives two hundred yards at least, While over hurdle, bunker, ditch - Th balls shall rise as though of yeast; The niblick, mashie and the cleek Shall never miss or make a slip, While only those who Scottish epeak Shall have a card of membership. Here on this field of perfect strokes I'll play a winning ganre with all Who beat me when on earth, the folks Who say I cannot hit the ball; And best of all, the games between, When o'er my nectar I am heard My triumphs to recount, I ween, There'll not be one to doubt my word. William Wallace Whitelock In Life. |
