The Lost Golfer Poem by Viresh Chunder Dutt

There was once a golfer, and a good man was he,
Whose one failing passion was some golf after tea.
When he died he was taken to heaven, after all,
He was just a little golfer, and not that bad at all.
Up there he was bored, for he had no ear to lend
To just sermons, and sermons, that never seemed to end.
There they all moved in silence, and never made a sound,
Whilst dowdy old women sang the "hallelujah" all round.
"Can I have golf? " he would shyly enquire,
But a look from the archangel would stop him then and there.
I would try the other place, he thought with a sigh:
'Tis just for some golf, else I'd stifle and die.
So he stepped through the gates, and down, down did he go
To the place, where there reigned old Diabolo.
The central heating system was working only too well,
And he wasn't sorry he had left behind his wings as he fell.
"What can I do for you? " said Diabolo with a smile;
"Can I have golf here? " stammered the golfer erstwhile.
"There are the links, " said Diabolo, and 'twas a wonderful green,
With ditches, and hedges, and holes umpteen.
The golfer was floored: "Oh that's lovely, " said he,
"I'll be damned if I wouldn't now start from the tee."
"Get those clubs, and the ball" - Diabolo looked small;
"That's the hell of it, boy, there isn't any ball."