The Tournamaat of Omar Palmyyr - part I



ARISE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night

Has driven the Ball that puts the Stars to Flight:

And Lo! the Golfer of the East has caught

The Victor's Trophy which is His by Right.



Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky

I heard a voice within the Pro Shop cry,

"Go Forth, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

Before Dawns' Liquid on the Turf be dry."



And, as like a Storm it grew, those who stood before

The Pro Shop shouted -- "Open then thy Door!

You know how little while we have to play,

And, once concluded, may want nine holes more."



Now the New Year reviving old Desires,

The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

When the Brown Nose of Jesus* on the Green

Inhales bad Parathion and He then expires.

* Hay-sus



That Man, indeed is gone with all He Knows,

No better Seventh Hole was prep'd by Those;

Who trim the Tifgreen flat and even, as they come,

And keep lush the Fairway with Water Hose.



And Omars Lips are lock'd; but is in Divine

High piping Amazing Grace, with "Nine! Nine!

Nine!" -- the Golfers' cruel cry unto the Pros

Indiff'rent to one less wetback on the line.



Come, sink the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring

The Winter Garment off the off-season fling:

The Bird of the U.S. Open has but a little way

To fly -- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.



Whether at Phoenix or at Burning Tree,

Whether the Rough is a sweet or an evil lea,

The Eighteen Holes of Life, as easy as par Two,

Will be broadcast live to millions on ABC.



Morning a thousand Pros will bring, you say;

Yes, but where are the Master Pros of Yesterday?

And the second Summer month that brings the Pros

Shall it take Trevino and Palmyyr away?



But come with old Palmyyr, and leave the Lot

Who triple bogeyed and time thus forgot:

Then let Palmyyr lay about the course at will,

And heedless of advice to quit, He hears them not.



With me along the strip of Herbage strown

That just divides the desert from the sown,

Where name of Hacker and Master is forgot --

And Peace comes only with the Green in One.



A Bookie in the rough and underneath the Bough,

With a Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, -- and Thou,

And a special wedgie to help me from this Wilderness --

Oh, Wilderness, of thee I've had enow!



Some for the Glories of This World; and some

Sigh for the Prophet "Bob's" Paradise to come;

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Promise go,

And heed the rumble of X-day's distant Drum!



Were it not a Folly, and Spider-like to spin

The Thread of wedgied Lie -- a cheating way to win --

What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall

Get caught, and forfeit in the sorrow of our sin!



Look to the Pro that goes behind us -- "Lo,

Laughing," he says, "onto the Green I go:

And all at once the silken body of my Purse

Grows fat, and its Treasure in my Garden grow."



The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon

Turns to Shit -- or it prospers; and anon,

Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face

You join the Senior's tour and bang, you're gone.



And those who with ease derided Golden Bear,

And flung grass to the Winds without a care,

Against their ex-wives very soon are turn'd

And humbled, to Commentate while wearing bogus hair.



Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai

Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

How Greenhorn after Greenhorn with his Pomp

Abode his Hour or two and went his way.



They say the Limo and the Golf Cart keep

To Lots where Bob Hope gloried and drank deep:

And Trevino, that great Hunter -- the Wild Ass

Stamps on his Head, hungover and denied Sleep.



I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose as where some buried Palmyyr's head;

And every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Came down upon my feet, and so they bled.



And this delightful Course whose tender Green

Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean --

Ah, hook upon it but lightly! for who knows

To where your lovely Ball shall spring unseen!



Ah, my Beloved, sink the Cup that clears

To-day of past Regrets and future Fears --

To-morrow? -- Why, To-morrow I may have

The wherewithal to drink Ten Thousand Beers.



Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best

That Time and Fate their youthful Vintage prest,

Have sunk their Cup but a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to Rest.



And we, that now make merry in the Room

They left, and Summer tournies in new Bloom,

Ourselves must we beneath the sod of Earth

Descend, to make a tourney slot -- for whom?



Ah, make the most of what we may yet spend,

Before we too into the Past descend;

Lust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie;

Sans Drive, sans Eagle, sans Putt, and -- sans End!


Doktor Hieronomyous Zinn, of course