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.
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