By Edgar A. Guest

As found in Harvey Penick’s Little Red Book

I found him underneath a tree
“And what is wrong,” quoth I,
“That you so solemn seem to be
Under this summer sky?”

“The birds above you gayly sing,
The wildflowers brightly bloom,
What is this awful, horrid thing
Which seeks to seal your doom?”

Round the children romp and play,
The gentle breezes blow,
Sad stranger, tell to me I pray
The burden of your woe.

“I do not see the sunbeams dance,
Nor hear the birds,” said he.
“There’s something faulty with my stance,
I can’t get off the tee.”

“All day I’ve shanked my mashie shot,
My putts rimmed every cup,
I’m doing something I should not;
I think it’s looking up.”

“Poor man,” I said, “tis very sure
No help for you appears,
The woes you bear I tried to cure
Myself for thirty years.”

“And still my mashie shots I shank,
And still I slice my drive,
And with the dubs expect to rank
As long as I’m alive.”

“Through time all other griefs may cure,
All other hurts may mend
The miseries of golf endure;
To them there is no end.”

Edgar A. Guest