Merion 2013

Merion

Slash away, Gash away,
Thrash away onward,
Deep into Merion’s test,
    Strode 56’n hundred.
Fore, toward the White Faces !
Charging through Hogan’s ghost;
Gasping to catch one’s breath,
    Strode 56’n hundred.

Fore, toward the White Faces !
Was there player dismay’d ?
Not tho’ USGA knew
High voices thundered;
Their’s was not to howl and cry,
Their’s was not to rue the lie,
Their’s was but to stand and try,
Gasping to catch one’s breath,
    Strode 56’n hundred.

Rough to the right of them,
Rough to the left of them,
White Faces in front of them,
Will they Plunder ?
Wicker Baskets gave no tell,
Stormed at with shots that fell,
Into the misty sunset
Where most would bid farewell,
    Strode 56’n hundred.

Flash’d all their sabered wedge,
Flash’d while teetering on the edge,
Slashing still as gamblers hedged,
Charging fair Merion, as
    All the world wondered;
Immersed within her subtle charms,
Attacking her with all their arms,
Bombers and Marksmen
Dodging self-inflicted harms,
    Battered and asunder
Pretenders fell back, some remained
    But all were humbler.

Rough to the right of them,
Rough to the left of them,
White Faces in front of them,
Will they Plunder ?
Stricker, Donald, Dufner fell,
Ernie, Mahan and Horschel,
Merion was raising hell,
Stumbling and bereft,
What epic saga to foretell ?
With but three men left,
    From 56’n hundred.

Who’d summon courage from afar ?

Who'd roll the ball into the jar ?

In strokes to closely dance with par,
    All the world wondered;
A wrenching end but yet the same,
This time wedges ruined his game,
Those from which he drew his fame,
    Suddenly encumbered;
Honor Justin for his gain,
Ponder Jason's coming reign,
Tempered with an old refrain,
    Spill Fickelton blundered.