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Off My Game
by
Andrew Lang


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‘I’m off my game,’ the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I’m in the burn [brook], I’m in the sand —
I’m off my game!
’Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff [hit behind the ball] along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet —
I’m off my game!
’Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it — behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins [a type of Scottish shrub],
And my excuse is lame —
It cannot cover half my sins —
I’m off my game!
I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey [a brass-tipped wooden club] yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek [a long iron, with little loft and a long shaft] seems merely made to top, 
My putting’s wild or tame; 
It’s really time for me to stop — 
I’m off my game.’ 


This poem is in the public domain.

 

 

 

 
 
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Andrew Lang (1844-1912) was a Scottish scholar and writer and attended St. Andrews University. Though no particular one of his works ever garnered great acclaim, his total body of work was impressive. He is especially revered for his children's fairy tales.

 

 

 

 

 


New comments are closed for now.
rhonasheridan:
Aye! I ken fine how he feels!
Posted 07/30/2014 03:59 AM


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