The outlook was terrific on the links that summer day,
For Wile had a three-stroke lead with two holes left to play.
He was the odds-on favorite to win against the field,
Especially with the ladies, how excitedly they squealed!
He cut a dashing figure as he strode upon the course,
With all the shouts of “WILE!” fans were surely getting hoarse.
The gallery was ten rows deep around the seventeenth green,
They had no fear he’d disappoint; he was a deft machine!
He lofted his approach shot way up high into the air.
A gust of wind then captured it and knocked it down from there
Into a wretched bunker, and the crowd it hollered, “Foul!”
They also knew their champion would ne’er throw in the towel.
He climbed down in the gaping pit: this scar upon the links
The architect had placed there in a fit of mad hijinks.
He was so deep into the earth, he couldn’t see the pin.
A worse place than this grave, you can’t imagine he’d be in.
The bunker held no fear for such a veteran of the game.
He calmly took his stance, and with aplomb he took his aim.
Then came a mighty swing, and when the club plowed through the sand,
The ball shot up but hit the lip—it’s not what Wile had planned.
Bother him? Not Wile for his lead it still held up.
The next shot made it out, but he was miles from the cup.
With two putts he was in the hole, when all was said and done,
He’d scored a double-bogey, now his lead was down to one.
Worried? Not our hero. Many times, he’d faced such trials,
And to the eighteenth tee he strode, upon his lips a smile.
He only needed par to win, ‘twould be a simple feat,
He put the last hole out of mind, and still remained upbeat.
He pulled his driver from the bag and set up to his ball,
Then smashed that little pill so far—a wonderment to all!
His next shot landed on the green, just two more strokes to win.
The crowd went wild, the ladies swooned amid the raucous din.
The ball lay twenty feet away—a fairly simple chore,
To knock it close then tap it in like many times before.
Adrenaline took over, though; his first putt was too strong.
He’d knocked it six feet past the hole, about five feet too long.
The crowd, in utter shock then groaned, but Wile raised his hand
As if to say, “Don’t worry,” though it wasn’t what he’d planned,
He still was odds-on favorite to make his par that day
And win the tournament outright, and then no one could say…
He’d blown it at the very end. He set up to the ball
And stroked it, but that cursed pill, it just refused to fall.
And now it settled three feet past, again the crowd was shocked.
It should have been an easy win, but now their faith was rocked.
A playoff loomed, assuming that he knocked the next one in.
The crowd held its collective breath as goosebumps topped their skin.
And then they watched him hit the putt, all eyes upon the ball,
And then it rolled towards the hole, all hoping it would fall...
“Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,”
But there is no joy upon the links—for mighty Wile lipped-out.
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