I found him underneath a tree
"And what is wrong," quoth I,
"That you so solemn seem to be
Under this summer sky?
"All day I've shanked my mashie shot,
My putts rimmed every cup,
I'm doing something I should not;
I think it's looking up."
"Poor man," I said, "'tis very sure
No help for you appears,
The woes you bear I tried to cure
Myself for thirty years.
"And still my mashie shots I shank,
And still I slice the drive,
And with the dubs expect to rank
As long as I'm alive.
"Through time all other griefs my cure,
All other hurts may mend,
The miseries of golf endure:
To them there is no end."
- Edgar A. Guest