Playing one day at the seaside, I was topping my balls on the tees,
And the sand and the bent were littered with fragments of double D’s;
Piffle supreme I was playing, and varying “slice” with “pull,”
But I hit one ball a wallop like a kick of a Spanish bull.
It whistled its way towards Heaven in a rocket’s magic flight;
It canceled the crimson sunset like the shroud of a moonless night;
It knocked the paint off a rainbow and scattered the stars like bees;
And sped thro’ the stellar spaces as tho’ it would never cease.
It looped the loop like Pégoud in parabolic curves;
It was salve to my wounded feelings and balm to my ruffled nerves;
It clove my opponent’s gizzard like the stab of a Lascar’s knife;
And produced the hardest swearing I have ever heard in my life.
I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent ball;— T. M. Kettle
It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall;
It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell;
I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell.