On either side the fairway lie
deep waters low and sandtraps high,
and if your ball should somehow fly
beyond the rough that claims the sky,
then play another shot;
and up and down the players go,
gazing where the lilies blow,
to glimpse their ball sunk well below;
or else it's in a 'pot'.
Knuckles whiten, fingers quiver,
as you try to grip your driver.
Others' shots ran on forever,
your ball flies into the river,
on the course called Camelot.
Four slim figures search the flowers
as the group behind them glowers;
minutes seem to go like hours,
as they seek their shot.
The lovely lady finds her ball,
and on the fairway lets it fall.
She does not like hard lies at all;
and with her club proceeds to maul
the fairway with her shot.
She chips along with little swings,
And in her heart she gaily sings
thinking of love and other things
but of her golf score, not.
At the green the girls all play
then stop to count each errant stray.
One does not hear the next four say
a curse is on her if she stay
to count up every shot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
and so she writeth steadily,
and little other care hath she,
the lovely Miss Shalott.
The ladies chattered at their ease.
As if the ball had some disease
they poked their clubs around the trees.
They scorned to get down on their knees
to look for a lost shot.
In the party stuck behind
some words were said not too refined,
which would have been thought quite unkind
by gentle Miss Shalott.
Other players, playing slowly
or sitting down, or resting lowly
made harsh remarks by all that's holy
blaming those before them solely
for holding up the lot.
Past the ladies lovely scenes
of empty fairways and bare greens,
where birds unruffled and serene
unseed the new-laid plot.
"Have you seen who plays behind?"
whispered the young Miss Blatterkind.
"I see, I see, I am not blind.
If only somehow I could find,"
simpered young Miss Shalott,
"a way to make him notice me.
My destiny will always be
Entwined with his, if he could see,
the handsome Lancelot!"
"Wave your hand, and smile at him.
He frowns and looks so very grim,
but even he can't be so dim
as not to see the seraphim,
you, Adele Shalott!"
"At last the girls have called us through!
And not a moment overdue.
No longer must we sit and stew!"
"He waved to me, my heart will burst!"
sighed Miss Shalott, and interspersed
her groans with sounds which might be thirst
or suffering,or unrehearsed
acting at being hot.
She swanned her way out of the rough.
Her movement out was just enough
to make her amorous target duff
his easy fairway shot.
Lancelot did not surmise
that she would just materialize.
She gasped a little in surprise.
The golf ball bounced between her eyes,
she tumbled as if shot.
He was a really decent bloke,
and never once the thought awoke
that this would cost an extra stroke,
the pallid Lancelot.
The groups converged upon the prone
Adele Shalott, who gave a groan.
Like a statue made of stone
the perpetrator stood alone,
the fearful Lancelot.
"The ball has struck her on the head!
I hope the lady is not dead.
She has a lovely face," he said,
"but what a silly clot!"