Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 123, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 751 & 752, March/April 2004

It came to pass that I, one day,

Reluctantly agreed to play

Some golf, with one I called a friend

Right up until his tragic end.

Before attempting such, alas,

I’d thought in terms of spotted bass,

And little dreamed a new endeavor

Would end my fishing days forever.

This golfer, rest his soul departed,

Though jovial and merry-hearted,

Aroused me with his rather cutting

Remarks about my style of putting,

And openly appeared to thrive

On how misguided was my drive.

He laughed when I approached the rough

(By George! I felt I’d had enough!),

Noting, with crude and raucous yak,

The odd position of my back—

Quoting, with emphasis debasing,

The rules that govern turf replacing—

And, as his merriment increased,

I felt arise the inner beast,

Quick to offend at what he said—

And lightly clubbed him on the head.

I guess I got a bit excited

Before my anger was requited,

And, hence, went on to hack and chop,

Feeling so good I couldn’t stop.

The cops, investigating later,

Compared his noggin to a crater,

And locked me up so snug, I’ve fears

I’ll never break a hundred (years).

It’s sad to grow a prison pallor,

While he, whose soul has found Valhalla,

Will never know I had such fun,

And made so many holes in one.