“Damn’ funny chaps, these golfin’ gals”,
The aged one vaguely remembers
“They’re full of froth with squeaky pals
To trample us when they be members.
“They damn’ well crave their rights with us
By Jove, they’ll mount a frilly revolution
They’d change our laws, just monstrous
Thank God for a cast iron Constitution.
“Our comfy rules can block their pesky plans
To scrub our g ‘n’ t, our pipes an’ whisky
We’ll mount the barricades with all our fans
No gal members here, however frisky!
“The Church, the Lords, MCC an’ many other splendid chaps
Succumbed an’ took the gals at last, as so may we perhaps.”
The tale of a brilliant and plucky Liverpool boy defying the play of Titans
O ‘twas a most remarkable and memorable golfing game
To astound our host of most adoring admirers we stood tall
When three brave souls whose hearts are mainly free of blame
Manly struck and strove to welly hence the lightning ball.
Lightheartedly they said that by far the weakest of the three
Should gratefully accept their lordly grant of one stroke per hole
And so began a struggle waged by Titans, not including me
Clashing mighty shot answering subtle touch towards the flaggy pole.
First Southampton, with his whippy wrists and wrangled what’s-its
Pushed on the pace with thund’rous power against Glaswegian guile
Until the tables turned with rapier precision as Glasgow pits
His cunning chips and chops with many a pleasant curse awhile.
And all along the unheralded, the unbeloved , lurking in the sand
Lashed, cursed and clouted the sandy orb to notch some ghastly scores
Until, like a scented, sensuous sprite the scouser spirit came upon the land
Bursting forth to ghost unseen, reaping from heavenly watchers their applause.
The burnished two, handshaking in victory and defeat, chattering their joy
While yet the third had still not played his final putt to shake the universe
And all a’sudden their merry japes fell silent on their conquering ploy
As the unregarded, with silky skill rolled in the merry orb to justify this verse.
O what a wail struck up from Glaswegian heart, a victory snatched away
Southampton lived to strive again as Liverpool snatched the final play!
A coruscating, flashing 3-wood by the ancient Master
Tore this mighty hole to absolute defeat and shreds
While his puny partner toyed with unravelling disaster
Imperious the stride as on the green the Master treads.
A tiny cough to clear that icy brain before the rolling stroke
Like honey caressing the silky green to seal the sweetest four
And jumping joy engulfed the Master as realization broke
A Birdie snatched with consummate ease, the partner poor.
The fearsome Twelfth, sneering its size and called The Burn
Legendary with its runny brook and brooding bunkers grim
Our Master struts his happy talent and gambles at every turn
His golden reputation sealed by golf sublime, his figure trim.
In this most noble sonnet, should you sense the poet’s awe
Reflect, then turn the page and say, “What was the score?”.
This sonnet relives the majestic play on the 517yds hole that stunned the poet.
On the day they let a Scoose marauder in
The auld boys sat there chunnerin’, makin’ a din
Why now do we stoop to admit a Scooser
When wha’ we need is a fine young mouser?
Ne’er worry thy ancient heids aboot it
He’s nae a challenge, he is nae fit
Tae break oor records wi’ his drivin’
But lift your eyes, his wee wife’s arrivin’.
An’ there’s oor Andy an’ young Derek tae
They shall make the Scooser upstart pay
Let’s see him wi’ his wee puny puttin’
Match oor champions wi’ chins a’juttin’.
An’ so the chatter spread aboot
The Scooser’s play was just a hoot
The auld boys fell asleep once more
Until they awoke to Scooser’s score.
Oor records gone, by Scooser blasted
Which we saed were surely everlasted
An’ noo he struts his canny roonds away
There’s none tae match his canny play.
The ainly advance we have for sure
Three bonny wives dance on oor floor
Three bonny lassies wi’ bosoms heavin’
Stop the auld boys from quick a’leavin’.
Oor wee three lassies they ne’er ever chatter
They live fine lives, their bairns an’ granchiel’ matter
Which leaves oor buddies stormin’ doon the way
Breathin’ in the love o’ life itsel’, awhile they play.