The crowd draws in its breath,
Watching the tournament of death
On the green grass of Saskatoon
At the dread hour of noon.
That’s right, it was time for the duel;
The two men had eaten their gruel
And were ready to fight
If not to the death than at least until night.
(Well, the dark is scary!)
In the heat of the day,
An golden eagle flew away
Screeching his terror and fright,
While the gunsmoke was still light….
(There were no guns. Don’t fret.)
The man they called Tiger teed off
With a birdie which no would did scoff,
But a man they called Harrington,
An Irish lad all the way from Paddington.
(Which is in England, but rhymed. More or less.)
The day became hot and they needed a drink,
So suspended their duel with a clink
As their caddies put the clubs away
To cool off for later that day.
(Golf is very hard work.)
But with a few more shots
And sand traps in spots,
The intrepid duelers prevailed,
But with results were not availed.
(It takes time to tally golf scores!)
(ANTICIPATION! Or maybe you don’t care….)