Classic Poem

Of all the golfers playing at the Fairgreen Country Club,
Lysander James Adolphus Brown was quite the rankest dub.
His stance was queer, his driving wild, his mashie shots were jokes.
The best hole that he ever made took twenty-seven strokes.
At times he'd swing for half an hour and never touch the ball.
It really was a wonder that he tried to play at all.

Now one day when Lysander had been rather off his game,
Into the locker room a handsome, well-dressed stranger came.
His clubs were swung across his back, and as he entered there
A pungent sulphur odor seemed to permeate the air.
He sat down by Lysander, and with just the slightest sneer
He said: “I've watched you play around. You certainly shoot queer.”
Lysander had a biting wit, as all his clubs mates knew,
And so he answered like a flash: “Well, what is that to you?”
The stranger smiled and said: “I heard you say you'd sell your soul
If you could make a decent score, or even win a hole.
I'm just the man you're looking for. I've got a set of clubs,
Their owner can make Sarazen or Hagen look like dubs.
They're guaranteed, and good as new. I've used them only twice.”
Lysander James Adolphus Brown said hoarsely: “What's your price?”
The stranger's face grew stern, and from his coat he drew a scroll.
“Just sign this and the clubs are yours. The price I ask—your soul!”
“There's no mistake,” Lysander cried, “and they'll improve my game?”
“They're guaranteed,” the stranger said.
Lysander signed his name.
A smell of brimstone filled the room; then came a thunderclap,
And there Lysander sat, alone. The clubs lay in his lap.

'Twas on the morning of the match, and brightly shone the sun,
And as Lysander reached the tee the crowd said: “Watch the fun.”
“You laugh too soon,” Lysander said. “I'll show you duffers up,
For by to-night my name will be engraven on the cup.”
He placed a shiny, brand-new ball upon a mound of sand,
And from his bag he calmly seized his driver in his hand.
A laugh rose from the gallery, but it changed into a shout
When, with a graceful, easy swing, he hit the ball a clout.
It shot right down the fairway like a bullet from a gun.
“It's in the cup!” the gallery cried. “He's made the first in one!
Well, even duffers have their lucky shots,” they said, perplexed.
Lysander merely smiled and said: “Just watch me on the next.”
The second hole was very long—six hundred yards or more—
And thirty-five or forty was Lysander's average score.
Once more he drove with all his might. The ball sped toward the goal.
It landed square upon the green and trickled in the hole.
Then Brown said to his caddy as his ball again he teed:
“Just take that bag back to the club. My driver's all I need.”
The crowd no longer ridiculed Lysander's awkward stance,
They followed him around the course like people in a trance,
Until a mighty cheer went up upon the final green.
Lysander nonchalantly said: “That gives me an eighteen.”

Then once again the pungent smell of sulphur filled the air,
And turning round, Lysander saw the stranger standing there.
A sudden hush spread o'er the crowd, a stillness filled the place.
A smile of rare contentment gleamed upon Lysander's face.
And the gallery heard him mutter as he took the stranger's hand:
“Well, anyway I guess I made a record that will stand.”