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Poem	Behold, my child, this touching scene, The golfer on the golfing-green; Pray mark his legs’ uncanny swing, The golf-walk is a gruesome thing! See how his arms and shoulders ride Above his legs in haughty pride, While over bunker, hill and lawn His feet, relentless, drag him on. And does the man walk always so? Nay! nay I my child, and eke, oh! no! It is a gait he only knows When he has on his golfing clothes. Blame not the man for that strange stride He could not help it if he tried; It is his timid feet that try From his obstreperous clothes to fly.
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