Thursday, July 05, 2007


I’m off to Alabama for a long weekend on the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail.

Ninety holes in two and a half days. I will be sore - and likely hung over - upon my return Sunday evening.

Let me invoke the Muse to inspire my play:

Golf is Flog Spelled Backwards

I play my pestilential game
Without a single speck of shame.
I hack my way around the course
With absolutely no remorse.
The fairways, I have rarely seen —
I struggle once I’m on the green.
My drives will hook, or maybe slice.
They do not follow my advice.
My shots all seek the woods and water.
They do not travel where they orter.
O, I’d forgo all worldly goods
If I could play like Tiger Woods
For just one game. ’Tis not to be;
I guess I’ll have to play like me.


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