And stuffed the ball in,
Like American packers of pig-meat, hard home to the floor of the tin.
These things I admired; but I wondered still more when the mighty,
The mystical thumpers of pills by the marge of the spray,
Having somehow offended Poseidon or else Aphrodite,
Got chucked from the fray,
Passed forth till they left Mr. Jenkins sole lord of the hazardous bay.
When the ultimate putt was holed out in each notable duel
How grandly they took it, remarking "I think (or I guess)
That the right man has conquered," not shouting that Fortune was cruel,