Not a member was stirring, not even Tim’s elbow;
The golf bags were hung in the bag room below,
While the Card Room was empty, 'cept for Blew and Cipriano.
The golfers were nestled all snug in their beds,
As visions of birdies danced in their heads;
While Victoria in her nightgown, and Todd in his shorts,
Had just settled down off #12, for some indoor winter sports.
When out on the course, there arose such a clatter,
Toddie sprang from his bed, to see what was the matter;
Away to the window, he flew like Bob Dray,
Tore open the shutters (nearly took him all day!).
The moon on the breast of the now dormant sod,
Gave off a lustre like Dave Schmertz's head when he nods,
When what to Toddie's wondering eyes should appear,
But a speeding golf cart, chasing seven guys from the rear,
With a little old driver, clutching a clipboard was he,
Todd knew in a moment, t’was our own Billy D!
More rapid than turtles, his golfers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
"Now, Borek! Now, Ehlert! Now, Hardy and Miller!
On, Hollander! On Lewis! On Jackson ("The Thriller")!
Get onto the tee box! It's your five-minute call!
Now dash away! Dash away! Hit the damn ball!!
Like salmon to Capistrano, which instinctively flock,
In the face of such urging, they quickened their walk;
So up to the tee box, the golfers they flew;
With their bags full of clubs, chased by Billy D., too!
And then, in a twinkling, Todd saw out on the lawn,
A sleepwalking man, brandishing a wand!
After rubbing his eyes, not a word could he utter;
As there stood Tom Francis – with a long belly putter!
Wearing an old pair of boxers, barely covering his ass,
Onto the 12th green he wobbled, shorts covered with grass;
A bundle of putters, he had slung on his back,
Like a half-naked peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes were half open, as he munched on some Triscuits,
His physique? Dare I say? Like a can of busted biscuits!
His droll little mouth was gleaming with drool,
As he dropped a ball on the green, finally selecting his tool.
The stump of a tee he held tight in his jaws,
As he stood over the ball, putter clenched in his paws;
His head was quite broad, with a bright silver mane,
That shook when he putted (like Hepburn’s in a hurricane!)
He missed a two-footer, the right jolly old hacker,
And laughed right aloud, lining up a four-foot comebacker;
With a twitch of his hands, the putt he let fly,
Then he uttered a curse, as the ball rolled twelve inches by!
Letting out a loud sigh, he went straight to his ball,
And rolled it once more, finally watching it fall.
Then laying a finger aside of his blade,
To his golf cart he strode, the putt having finally been made.
Tossing his clubs in the cart, his practice now completed,
He then tore down O'Connor, feeling not the least bit defeated;
But he was heard to exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Son of a bitch! That putt breaks to the right!!"
To my friends at LCCC, best wishes to all for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year in 2014.
- The Editor
