The Ravin’ Of A Golf Maniac – Golf Poetry

THE RAVIN' OF A GOLF MANIAC 

AH, distinctly I remember, 
It was in the bleak December, 
That I pondered, weak and weary, o'er my volumes of golf lore. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow 
That I happiness might borrow 
From a game that would cause sorrow, sorrow to opponents sore. 
To opponents, male and female, who would evermore be sore 
At the lowness of my score. 

While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of someone gently rapping, rapping, saying to me, "Fore!" 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "out there, jealous of my score ; 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Deep into that darkness peering, 
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Fearing that a rival had come wandering to my door. 
But the silence was unbroken. 
And the stillness gave no token. 
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, "Your score!" 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Open then I flung the shutter, 
When, with many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a saucy Caddie, Caddie who knew well my score. 
Not the least obeisance made he. 
Not a minute stopped or stayed he, 
But with cool assurance laid he my golf clubs upon the floor. 
Then he kicked them — nothing more. 

"Prophet,'* cried I, "thing of evil — 
Prophet still, if boy or devil ! — 
By Chick Evans, Vardon, Travers, and the others  we adore — 
Tell this would-be champion truly, when will bogey be  his score?" 
Quoth the Caddie, "Nevermore!" 

"Be that word our sign of parting. 
Boy or friend," I shirieked, upstarting. 
"Get thee back onto the golf links; use your voice to call out 'Fore!' 
Do not try to cool my ardor, 
For I'll only practice harder, 
And I know that Col. Bogey I'll be downing with my score." 
Quoth the Caddie, "Nevermore!" 

And the spirit of that Caddie, never flitting, must be sitting, 
Still upon my harmless golf clubs that he kicked upon the floor. 
For my shots have all the seeming as if played by one who's dreaming, 
And with driver, cleek and mashie, I'm the one to call out "Fore !" 
Always am I in the background — always do I call out "Fore !" 
Good score make I ? Nevermore ! 

Martha Michel Martin
from Lyrics of the Links, 1921 

This poem is quite obviously, a take on Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven, which is one of my favorites. I can quote much of The Raven by heart.

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