The Armchair Golfer

It's thirty-five miles from Chesapeake Bay,
A hundred from Cape Henlopen,
But it's only the width of the room from me,
The site of the U.S. Open.

So here I sit at my new TV,
A hacker, a digger, a dub,
To watch the scene of the championship,
The Congressional Country Club.

The Congressional Country Club, my friend,
It's hard by Washington city,
Where a solon sore at his shameful score
Can bury it in committee.

When Senators meet for a friendly match
And on the first tee cluster,
The matter of who gives strokes to whom
Turns into a filibuster.

But the tournament wheel is a whirling wheel
And here is its golden hub,
Just a drive and a pitch from the U.S. Mint,
The Congressional Country Club.

So today it's free of politicos
And patronage seekers barmy.
And lobbyists sit at home and sulk,
Out-lobbied by Arnie's Army.

The gallery sways like a primitive throng
At a ceremony pagan,
And murmurs the names of its ancient gods,
Ouimet and Jones and Hagen.

Then swirls around the gods of today
An argumentative chorus:
Can January blossom in June?
Can Lema give weight to Boros?

Can Nichols keep pace with Nicklaus,
The heftiest of the hefties?
Or will Charles repeat his British feat
And hearten the nation's lefties?

Will the title go to a real old pro
Like Casper or Snead or Player,
Or to some unknown like What's-his-name
Who putts like an old crokayer?