A poem by Ogden Nash and dedicated to one of the great golfing predicaments, followed by comments from Ira Maine, Poetry Editor

SLOW DOWN, MR GANDERDONK, YOU’RE LATE.

Do you know Mr Ganderdonk, he is no Einstein, he has no theories of Time and Space,
But he is the only man I know can be both hare and tortoise in the same race.
Mr Ganderdonk’s proclivity
Is divoty Relativity.
Put him behind you in a twosome or a foursome,
His speed is awesome.
His relationship to your rear
Is that of a catamount to a deer,
And while you’re still reaching for your putter
He is standing on the edge of the green going mutter mutter,
But once through you in his foursome or twosome,
His torpor is gruesome.
He is a golfer that the thought of other golfers simply hasn’t occurred to;
He has three swings for every shot, the one he hopes to use, the one he does use, and finally the one he would have preferred to.
His world from tee to cup
Consists of those behind him pressing him and those in front holding him up,
Wherefore the rest of the world is his foe
Because the rest of the world is too fast or too slow.
For Mr Gandergook there is only one correct pace and that is his,
Whatever it is.

END

The glorious thing about Mr Nash is you either get it or you don’t, and half the fun is his assumption that;
Just so long as the words at the end of a line rhyme,
Everything’s fine.
And it is also de rigueur and Ogden Nash’s sacred wont
To ensure that they don’t
Get out of line
And for various reasons best known to fate,
Discover too late
That they have failed utterly and comprehensively to produce a nice shiny rhyme.

EPILOGUE

Oh was I foolish, was I rash?
To attempt to rhyme like Ogden Nash
If imitation’s the sincerest form of flattery
I’ll be trounced with literary assault and battery
And be accused of bats in the belfry
Because, what do I know?  I have never played golfery
Of masheying and slasheying and driving and putting
I know nothing.
So next time don’t listen, don’t give ear to my crewill rot
Gut,
Just say that my golf is something up with which y’will not
Putt.
P.S.
So, should he take to the golf links, pray, down to earth hunker,
Lest Ganderdonk blast a ball right up your bunker.

Or with greater erudition: