By Jim Corbett

Whose woods these are I think I know.
But I have sliced my drive and so
I hope he doesn’t mind me hacking down
these trees; some more will grow.

My little caddie thinks it strange
That I’m not at the driving range.
So many things in self and swing
That I have yet to fix and change.

He gives my bag of clubs a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
(He does that every time
He sees the club I reach to take.)

It’s true that I’m an old golf nut
And my wife thinks I’m a horse’s butt.
But she’s at home, and I’m out here
With miles to go before I putt,
And miles to go before I putt.

Stopping By Woods On A Sunny Afternoon (With Apologies to Robert Frost)