Representative Poetry Online

Random Poem of the Day

1'I'M off my game,' the golfer said,
2    And shook his locks in woe;
3'My putter never lays me dead,
4    My drives will never go;
5Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
6    Results are still the same,
8    I'm off my game!
9'Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
10    On Laidlay or Macfie,
13Men hurry from me in the street,
14    And execrate my name,
15Old partners shun me when we meet --
16    I'm off my game!
17'Why is it that I play at all?
18    Let memory remind me
19How once I smote upon my ball,
20    And bunkered it -- behind me.
22    And my excuse is lame --
23It cannot cover half my sins --
24    I'm off my game!
25I hate the sight of all my set,
28    And now I hate an iron.
30    My putting's wild or tame;
31It's really time for me to stop --
32    I'm off my game.'

Notes

7] burn: brook. Back to Line
11] toe or heel: hit the ball with the outer or the inner of the club-head. Back to Line
12] sclaff: hit behind the ball. Back to Line
21] whins: gorse. Back to Line
26] Lord Byron, the English poet. Back to Line
27] brassey: brass-shod wooden club. Back to Line
29] cleek: long iron, one with little loft and a long shaft. Back to Line