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Poems from Francis Kerr Young
The Scottish Curse


(a Francois Villon Ballade)

There lay acres and acres of arable land
in a valley remodelled for Golf's tried and true.
Rolling fairways hold hazards of water and sand
with deciduous trees to enhance this fine view.
But an ancient Scot's Curse plays a hullabaloo,
hypnotizing all those who fall,
it compels the unwary to pay homage to
that most strangest of all: A wee white dimpled ball!

It begins with a wood, and a swing - Oh, that's grand!
as it hurtles a divot from out where it grew,
but the novice in wonder can't quite understand
how to drive that wee ball without making it slue.
Yet persistence prevails and begins to win through,
which just makes that lad swagger an' all,
till he's back in the rough with a niblick to chew
that most strangest of all: A wee white dimpled ball!

All his life turns around as the Curse takes command;
while his savings diminish, his golf tips accrue.
As the love for his family slips out of hand,
he's out plodding the course or just scanning the blue,
ever chasing yon ball he keeps driving askew.
And from far, far away one might hear that FORE! call
till it drops in the cup. What does he tee anew?
That most strangest of all: A wee white dimpled ball!

l'envoi

But a hole-in-one will never free this poor screw
for the curse guards the ego from tarnish or spall.
Will he ever reflect on this thing he should rue?
That most strangest of all: A wee white dimpled ball!


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